


Outpost I and II

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-11-15
Updated: 2000-11-15
Packaged: 2018-11-20 11:18:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 43,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11334648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Mulder's gone, Skinner tries to find him.





	Outpost I and II

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

 

Outpost by m. butterfly

Outpost  
by m. butterfly  


Rating: R for m/m sex, coarse language  
Category: M/Sk  
Spoilers: Requiem  
Archive: Sure--just keep "as is," please  
Summary: Mulder's gone; Skinner tries to find him.  
Author's notes: Yes, yes--this is set in my "Resuscitation" universe, and is sort of a companion piece to my story "Houndfish." Keep in mind that, while I strive for accuracy when referring to real places, this is a work of fiction (duh!). There was no instant photo booth in Key West's Clinton Square Market when I was there last April, and there probably wasn't one there in January 1999 either, but I needed one for this story, so it's here. 'Nuf said. Feedback welcome and cheerfully answered when I get back from vacation in late October. Ta-ta and cheerio!  
Acknowledgments: Tons 'o thanks to Elizabeth Gerber for exceptional beta, unwavering friendship, and putting up with my last-minute panic attacks. I claim full responsibility for any post-beta errors.  
Dedication: For Gaby, who liked "Adventures in Housesitting" and wanted the story behind the little framed picture of the boys kissing. Happy belated birthday, dear!  
Disclaimer: The characters of Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, Dana Scully and the Lone Gunmen are the property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. However, Howard Skinner is a product of my fevered imagination, and 100% mine. No copyright infringement is intended, and no one's paying me to write this stuff.

* * *

Outpost (1/2)  
by m. butterfly

The Highwayman Motel  
Bellefleur, Oregon  
June 3, 2000  
5:46 a.m.

He slipped into the end unit on cat feet, the door closing behind him with the smallest of rusty squeals. There was no one in the room beside him--hadn't been all week--but the walls were thin, and sound carried out here, on the edge of the Collum National Forest.

Even though what Walter Skinner really wanted to do was stomp and yell, he walked softly to one of the flimsy kitchen chairs and sank into it. With a silent groan, he bent over and unlaced and removed his boots, making an effort to keep the mud from falling off in obscene reddish-brown clumps onto the yellowed linoleum. 

God, he was weary. Struggling to his feet, he shrugged out of his fleece jacket, then reached automatically under his left arm to unbuckle a holster he hadn't worn in weeks. They'd taken away his firearm when they suspended him, more worried he'd eat a bullet than put one into someone else.

"Fat fuckin' chance," he snorted quietly. "Not 'til I see the body."

Shit. He was talking to himself again.

After living with Fox Mulder for more than a year, Skinner hadn't become miraculously chatty, but had gotten used to keeping up his end of a conversation. Now that he was alone again, the sound of his own voice was strangely comforting.

He yawned mightily and stretched, relishing the pops and snaps as his back unkinked. It was one of the few things in his life that still seemed normal. Whatever the fuck "normal" was.

It certainly wasn't normal for an FBI agent to be beamed aboard a goddamned spaceship in the Northwest Oregon woodlands. Or for the abduction to be witnessed by the agent's male supervisor, who also happened to be his live-in lover. Or for that supervisor to punch out a fellow Assistant Director while reporting what he'd seen.

And there was no way in fucking hell it was normal for a 47--no, shit, make that *48*--year-old Bureau career man to be living the life of a fugitive in a cheap motel thousands of miles from home.

"Time to restock you," he told the nearly empty shelves of the ancient refrigerator. He grabbed the container of grapefruit juice, shook it, and emptied it without benefit a glass. It was something he wouldn't have thought of doing a couple of years ago. If his ex-wife could only see him now...

Skinner was out of milk, so he cooked up some hot oatmeal and ate it with a little butter instead. That was the way his grandmother--the maternal, Russian-born one--used to serve it to him when he was a boy. He wasn't all that hungry, but he was eating regularly to stay healthy. For Mulder's sake. Healthy and lucid. That's why there wasn't so much as a bottle of light beer in the whole place.

He barked out a bitter laugh.

Try telling his colleagues he wasn't out of his goddamned head. It'd taken four of them to pull him off Kersh.

What the fuck did they expect? He'd kept his temper, barely reacting to the raised eyebrows, the unsuppressed snickering, the incredulous looks directed his way while he delivered his report. But Kersh's callous remark about Mulder's disappearance ("If he really was abducted by aliens, Walter, wouldn't you be happy for your wonder boy? Wasn't that Mulder's ultimate wet dream?") was way beyond the limit, even for him.

The only one who'd shown any compassion for the missing man, for Skinner's anguish over losing him, was Cassidy. Skinner had suspected it was she who'd calmed Kersh down, who'd suggested the suspension instead of outright dismissal. Providing Skinner saw a Bureau-approved shrink and remained in the DC area.

Well, fuck that.

After two appointments with Dr. Gabe English, he'd had enough. He wasn't going to get Mulder back by sitting on his ass in some high-priced psychiatrist's lair, telling a truth no one in the Bureau was ever going to believe.

Through Mulder, he knew that abductees were usually returned to the same general area from where they were snatched. So, unarmed and unauthorized, Skinner had taken off for Oregon with a new identity, courtesy of the Lone Gunmen. The only person who knew his exact whereabouts was Scully, who'd been instructed to call only in case of emergency. Like if she or her unborn baby were in danger. Or if Mulder suddenly showed up in her neck of the woods.

Once he'd arrived in Bellefleur, Skinner knew he couldn't use the same motel he and Mulder had stayed at the last time. Even if he'd asked for a different room, there were too many painful memories. Besides, he wanted a place where he could cook his own meals. Keep a low profile. Thus, the sad little efficiency he was now occupying.

He dried and put away the last of the dishes before doing what he'd done every morning at this time since he'd been on the lam: e-mail the Gunmen and Scully, whose day had begun while most folk on the West Coast were still sleeping. Using aliases and coded phrases, Skinner checked in with them daily to see if there'd been any word on Mulder at their end. He felt guilty--and useless--having no updates to contribute himself.

Damn. For the last 15 nights, he'd spent from dusk to dawn in the forest, wandering around, calling out his lover's name, looking for--what? What the hell did he expect to find? Mulder, sitting like an overgrown nymph at the base of a great pine, waiting for him? He didn't really think that Mulder would fall from the sky into his arms. Did he?

Early this morning, he'd ached for Mulder so deeply that, when the first rays of sunlight began to penetrate the thick growth of trees, he found himself hollering, calling on whatever beings had taken Mulder to bring him back, or--what the fuck?--go ahead and take *him*, too. Why the hell couldn't they have abducted him in the first place, along with Mulder? At least they'd be together, sort of. And being experimented on by extraterrestrials would have been far less torturous than what he was going through now.

"Fox, where are you?" He shut down the laptop, and sat with his head in his hands until he got himself under control. He'd refused to break down since this whole fucking mess began, although he'd nearly lost it when he'd visited Scully in the hospital to tell her what had happened. How he'd fucked up.

He didn't want to cry. To do anything remotely close to grieving. Mulder wasn't dead. He couldn't be. Not like this. Not this time.

Skinner washed up and changed into warm sweats. Even though daytime temperatures had been in the mid 80s, it had fallen below 50 degrees overnight, and he still felt chilly. He got into the lumpy bed and tried reading the paper, but couldn't get past the date printed under the masthead. June 3. His birthday. It was so damned difficult not to feel sorry for himself. The previous year, he'd been in Provincetown. Celebrating with Mulder. 

He blinked hard and reached for the small framed photo he kept on the bedside table. The shot of him and Mulder kissing had been taken during their first vacation together, in an instant photo booth in Key West, Florida.

Most people regarded Mulder as difficult. Insubordinate. Spooky. And so he was, at times. But a privileged few knew he was also generous and thoughtful and kind-hearted.

And only Walter Skinner really knew how goddamned sweet and affectionate he could be.

"I miss you so much," he told Mulder's tiny image, his voice wooly. The thought of never being able to hold and kiss and make love to the beautiful young man again was unbearable.

He put the picture back on the table, then lay down on his side so he could see it. He looked at it every morning before going to sleep in the hopes that he'd dream about good things instead of relive the nightmare of the last time he saw Mulder.

And their Key West adventure had most definitely been a good thing. 

Key West, FL  
Friday, January 1, 1999  
11:09 pm

New Year's Day in Key West was nothing at all like the night before. The streets were quiet--not quite deserted--and the people who travelled them weren't too lively, either.

Mulder and Skinner, however, were an exception. They'd rung in the New Year dancing at the Copa, but drank bottled water until midnight, then switched to champagne. And they didn't even finish the bottle, as their hormones got the better of them. They were back in their room well before one o'clock, doing the "Princeton rub" against the door. It wasn't the most idyllic scene--socks and shoes still on, jeans and briefs strangling their knees, t-shirts bunched up under their armpits--but there was no way in hell they could've made it to the bed. Hell, they'd nearly come in their pants on the fucking dance floor.

This was their last night in Key West; they'd be spending Saturday in Key Largo, which was much closer to the airport, before catching a Sunday-morning charter back to DC. Because they were among the few island inhabitants who weren't seriously hung over, they shared a carafe of wine with dinner, then stopped off at the Hog's Breath Saloon for a couple of drinks. They were feeling pretty damned happy by the time they left the bar.

They hadn't been walking more than five minutes when Mulder stopped in his tracks and began looking up and down Front Street.

"Fox? What is it?"

"Gotta pee."

Skinner shook his head. "But you just went."

"I know, but I've gotta go again."

"And you can't wait 'til we get back to the hotel."

"No," Mulder said, shifting from one foot to the other. "Help me find somewhere. An alley. A bush. A fire hydrant. Anything."

"Okay, okay. Let's go back to the Hog's Breath."

"There's gotta be something closer. A hotel, maybe."

Skinner glanced around them. "I don't see any--Hey! That just might do." He steered Mulder across the street, toward the Clinton Square Market--the only real mall in Key West.

"It won't be open, Walter. Not tonight."

Granted, the place looked dead. But some lights *were* on.

"Come on, babe. Let's give it try."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Mulder was still complaining--about his ready-to-burst bladder, about Skinner's misplaced idealism--when he was ushered into the building. "Everything'll probably be locked up," he grumbled.

"That's my little optimist." Spotting the sign for the men's room, Skinner took his squirming charge by the hand and led him over.

Mulder groaned his relief when the door swung open. "Thank God."

The older man leaned against the sink counter, arms folded over his nicely muscled torso, eyes fixed on his lover's ass.

"Having fun, Walter?"

"With you? Always."

Mulder shook off and zipped up, then joined Skinner at the sink. "I guess I had too much coffee after dinner," he said as he washed his hands.

"Coffee. Riiiiiight." Smirking, he gave Mulder a paper towel.

"Fuck you."

"Oh, I'm counting on it. I'm way overdue for a good fucking."

Mulder swallowed. "Wow. Yeah. Okay."

Seeing Fox Mulder like this--monosyllabic, bug-eyed, slack-jawed--was a rare but delicious treat. "C'mon. Let's get outta here."

But, not long after they left the restroom, Mulder grabbed Skinner's arm and brought them both to an abrupt halt. "Wait."

"For Christ's sake! Don't tell me you have to pee again."

"Uhn-uhn. Look." He nodded at something directly across the mall from them.

"What? What're we looking at?"

Without responding, Mulder pulled Skinner over to an instant photo booth tucked between a photo shop and a women's boutique.

"So?" Skinner was revved up and anxious to get going.

"Let's get our picture taken."

"Now? Here?"

"Sure. Why not? There aren't any pictures of us together. This way, we can have two each."

The sign on the side of the booth advertised four colour shots for three bucks.

Skinner's initial reaction was to march Mulder straight out of the mall and into bed. But he was right: there were no photographs of them. And neither one had even thought of bringing a camera on the trip. Besides, the hopeful look on Mulder's face melted his heart. And put his libido on hold.

"Okay." He dug out his wallet. "I'll even pay."

"Thanks, Walter." Beaming, he watched Skinner feed three one-dollar bills into the money slot, then pushed aside the short black curtain. "After you."

The bench was small--a tight fit for two tall men, especially when one of them was so broad-shouldered. And that was just fine. Arms around each other, cheek-to-cheek, they faced the front of the booth.

"You ready?" Skinner asked.

"Yup."

"Okay. Here goes. Say 'fellatio.'"

Mulder snickered. "Fellatio."

Skinner pressed the start button and, a moment later, the camera clicked and flashed.

Mulder blinked, then turned to look at Skinner, the tips of their noses touching. "I really love you, you know."

Click/flash.

"Yeah, I know. I love you too." He tilted his head and pressed his lips to Mulder's.

Click/flash.

Mulder wrapped his other arm around Skinner's neck and opened his mouth wider, welcoming a probing tongue.

Click/flash.

The kiss deepened. And continued--long after the photos were processed and spit into the hopper on the side of the booth.

Skinner finally came to his senses, remembered where the hell they were, when he heard his zipper being pulled down. He opened his eyes, shocked to see his shirt completely unbuttoned, his nipples slick with saliva, and Mulder kneeling before him.

"Fox! No!"

"Why not?"

Skinner reached over and tugged on the hem of the curtain, which ended only half-way down the booth's doorway. "'Why not?' *This* is why not! If anyone comes by, they'll see, well, everything."

"Who's gonna come by this time of night?"

"More tourists. A security guard. Somebody's grandmother. I dunno. All I know is that we're not gonna blow each other here."

Mulder banged his forehead against Skinner's knees. "How the hell do you expect me to walk back to the hotel with hard-on that'd cut glass?"

"My dick's not exactly cooked linguini, either."

"Then let me suck it and make it better."

Skinner did up his pants and stood, pulling Mulder to his feet. "No. Forget it."

"Please, Walter!" He clutched at Skinner's unbuttoned shirt, his features twisting along with fistfuls of fabric.

But Skinner was adamant. There was risk-taking, and then there was being just plain stupid. He stepped out of the booth, hauling a protesting Mulder with him. A quick look around indicated the mall was still devoid of fellow miscreants, for which he was truly grateful. He had to use one hand to fend Mulder off while using the other to retrieve the strip of photos from the hopper.

"Hey! These aren't half bad!"

"That's wonderful, but don't change the subject." Mulder's eyes were wild. "We can go back to the men's room. Use the handicap stall."

"Oh, *that* sounds romantic. Sex in a public toilet."

"Hey! Do you want romance, or do you want to get laid?"

"I don't want to go down on you in a place that reeks of urine and Pine-Sol." He tucked the photos into the pocket of the shirt he was struggling to do up. "And what if someone walks in?"

"I'll be quiet. They'll never know."

The dubious look Skinner gave him said it all. Mulder knew he couldn't win this one. Unless...

Wearing the most pitiful expression he could muster, he grabbed Skinner's hand and placed it over his own crotch. "Walter, I'm begging you. I'll *die* before we get back to our room."

Skinner reckoned his own cock was at least as rigid as the one he was recklessly caressing. Jesus. He tore his gaze from Mulder's miserable face and carefully scanned the mall. For the first time, he noticed there was a second floor, filled with offices instead of shops. And multiple floors meant--

There it was. Halle-fucking-lujeh.

He wrapped his fingers around Mulder's wrists and began tugging. "C'mon."

Mulder brightened. "Where we going? The john?"

"Nope. Better."

They reached the single elevator in seconds, and it came moments after Skinner called it. As soon as the doors slid open, he shoved Mulder inside ahead of him and, before the car could reach the second floor, pressed the emergency stop button.

"The alarm's gonna go off in a couple of minutes," the younger man warned. 

"So?" Skinner pushed him against the wall, sank to his knees, and had Mulder's slacks and briefs around his ankles in seconds. "You plan on coming more than once here?"

He snorted. "You're awfully sure of yoursel--Oh. Oh! Oh, shit!"

Skinner had skipped the preliminaries and drawn most of the erection into his mouth, kneading Mulder's balls while he sucked. Sucked hard. He was so caught up with what he was doing that he barely felt Mulder's fingers digging into his shoulders. Barely heard the moaning that quickly escalated into screaming.

However, they were both fully aware when the siren started clanging.

Skinner shot to his feet and stabbed at the ground floor button. The elevator began to descend, and the alarm stopped immediately.

Mulder, meanwhile, was in a state of post-orgasmic bliss and struggling to make himself decent again. "Damn, but you're good at that! I wanna do you now." 

"I don't--Here. Let me." Skinner batted Mulder's rubber hands away and buckled his belt as the car came to a halt. "I don't think you're in any shape to do me."

"Hah! I'm in much better shape than you are." He patted the massive bulge distorting Skinner's zipper. "Why don't we head back to the second floor so I can prove it, smart ass?"

Up went the elevator, stopping--again--between floors, and the Not-Ready-For-Sex-in-a-Photo-Booth Players traded roles. Skinner was so aroused that he came before the claxon had a chance to start wailing.

"Was I that good, or were you that horny?" Mulder asked as he set the car in motion.

"Both." He let Mulder tuck him back into his pants while he leaned against the back wall to catch his breath. "Thanks, babe," he wheezed.

"Anytime. And I mean that."

They reached ground level, the doors opening to reveal they were, mercifully, still alone.

Skinner couldn't help but notice that Mulder's cock was straining against the front of his Dockers. He patted it. "Does this mean I'm gonna get fucked tonight? Finally?"

Mulder took the petting hand and led Skinner out of their mobile love shack, toward the exit. "What do you mean, 'finally?'"

They emerged into the street, a pleasant sea breeze kissing their recently overheated skin. "You haven't topped once since we got here."

"Sure I have," Mulder insisted. "It was--oh, wait. You're right. The last time was Christmas Day. Why didn't you say something if that's what you wanted?"

Skinner wrapped his arm around Mulder's shoulders and squeezed affectionately. "Well, every time I planned to ask you, we went dancing first, and you know what happened."

"Oh, yeah," Mulder chuckled. "Do I ever. I guess we'd better not stop at the Copa on the way home, then."

"No. No stopping. For anything."

Still moving, Mulder leaned in and pressed his lips against Skinner's cheek. "Thanks for the pictures, Walter."

"You didn't even look at them! How do you know if you even like them?"

"Because *you* do. And you've got great taste."

Skinner pulled Mulder in closer. "Yeah. I sure do."

The Highwayman Motel  
Bellefleur, Oregon  
June 3, 2000  
8:23 a.m.

Bang, bang, bang.

Skinner was dreaming about Mulder--about Mulder's sweat-slick chest glued to his back, about Mulder's exquisite cock sliding effortlessly into his own warm body--when he heard his name being called. Cracking open one eye, he didn't know where the voice was coming from, or whose it was. Maybe he was still dreaming.

Bang, bang, bang.

"Walt? Open up!"

This time he sat up, his heartbeat starting to compete with the knocking. "Fox?" He threw back the threadbare blankets and tore out of bed. "Fox?" he cried again, unlocking and yanking open the door.

But the eyes he found himself staring into weren't hazel, but dark brown, like his own.

Howard Skinner smiled sadly. "Sorry, big brother. It's only me."

"Howie! What the hell are you doing here?"

The younger Skinner picked up a black duffel bag and hoisted it over his shoulder. "You gonna let me in or what?"

Walter ran a hand over his sleep-creased face. "Yeah. Of course. Come on in."

"Uh, nice place."

"Right." Walter shut the door with his foot, never taking his eyes off his brother. "How did you find me?"

Howard sat on the edge of the bed. "Mulder's partner."

"Goddamnit! I told her not to tell anyone where--"

"Don't blame Dana. I was pretty damned persuasive."

"But why? Not that I'm not glad to see you, but why are you here?"

Howard reached up and snagged his brother's wrist, urging him to sit down beside him. "We--that is, Karen and I, and Dana, for that matter--didn't want you to be alone on your birthday. Didn't seem right."

Predictably, the first emotion that passed across Walter Skinner's face was surprise, followed closely by irritation. But the more he looked at his brother, who'd come all the way from Dallas to see him, the softer his stern features grew.

"You'll get him back, Walt. You will." He felt an unfamiliar tremor when he touched the other man's arm in a gesture meant to comfort. "Walt? You okay?"

Then the damn burst, and Walter Skinner fell against his brother, into his arms, and let the tears flow.

But they were for himself, not for Mulder, he told himself.

Because Howie was right. He *would* get Mulder back.

He had to.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~  
Fini  
September 26, 2000

 

* * *

 

Patience  
by m. butterfly  
  
Rating: NC-17 for m/m sex, coarse language  
Category: M/Sk  
Spoilers: Requiem, Avatar, En Ami, Hollywood AD, SR-819, The Sixth Extinction (I & II), Je Souhaite  
Archive: Yes  
Summary: Skinner's wait is finally over.   
Author's notes: This is the sequel to "Outpost," which means it's set in my "Resuscitation" universe (found at http://Skinner.Mulder.com/walfox). It's also the point where I totally kiss canon good-bye, although I do admit to borrowing a couple of things from Season 8, including the title of an episode that has nothing to do with this story.  
Acknowledgments: This wouldn't have been possible without Elizabeth, who provided the necessary inspiration, encouragement and editing. I claim full responsibility for any post-beta errors.  
Dedication: For my dear friends Sue and Robin, and anyone else who's been hurting lately. And, as always, for Elizabeth.  
Disclaimer: The characters of Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner, Dana Scully, the Lone Gunmen, Alex Krycek, the Cigarette Smoking Man, Alvin Kersh, John Doggett, Sharon Skinner, Jane Cassal and Jana Cassidy are the property of Chris Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions and Fox Broadcasting. The rest of the characters belong to me. No copyright infringement is intended, and no profit (except spiritual, perhaps) is being made.

* * *

Patience  
by m. butterfly

Got a letter from a messenger  
I read it when it came  
It said that you were wounded  
You were bound and chained  
You had love and you were handled  
You were poisoned you were pained  
Oh no you were naked you were shamed  
\- "The Messenger," The Tea Party

The Highwayman Motel  
Bellefleur, Oregon  
July 11, 2000

Skinner's routine changed as the weather got warmer.

Now he ran in the relative cool of the early morning instead of the late afternoon, when the soaring heat and humidity seared his lungs. After long, fruitless nights of combing the forest in his relentless quest to find Mulder, he put on shorts and a tee-shirt and did 5K. That was followed by five minutes of stretching, 50 pushups, 100 crunches, a tepid shower, breakfast, e-mail, and--finally--bed. It actually worked better that way. By the time he hit the thin motel mattress, he was usually worn out enough to sleep for a few hours, daylight be damned.

But today he needed groceries, so he headed out after powering down his laptop. The shops opened and closed early in Bellefleur, except for Thursdays and Fridays, and this was only Tuesday.

Besides, there was something else he had to do: he'd been away from home long enough to need a haircut. Okay, maybe just a trim, but he hated it when what little hair he had left--especially the side fringes--grew thick and unruly. The Bozo-the-Clown look. He would visit the barber first.

He arrived downtown shortly after eight and parked in front of the supermarket. Danny's Barbershop--reminiscent of Floyd's of Mayberry--was just three doors up. But the convenient location wasn't what drew Skinner there. He'd already scoped out the unisex salon and decided within seconds that its staff sported the worst-looking heads of hair he'd ever seen. Then, completely by chance, he met Daniel J. Hargrove, Jr., and there was no question as to who'd be getting his business. 

This morning, only one of the modest barbershop's three chairs was occupied. Danny, a baby-faced blonde, glanced away from the shelf he was restocking to greet Skinner as he pushed open the door, setting the old-fashioned bells to ringing. "'Morning, Walt."

"'Morning, Danny."

"So. The time has come, huh?"

Skinner touched the sides of his head with mild disgust. "Certainly has."

"Have a seat in the end chair. I'll be right with you."

A second barber who could've been Danny's father gave the big, balding stranger a quick once-over, then looked at his co-worker with questioning eyebrows.

"Walt was a Marine too, Ben," Danny explained, absent-mindedly touching the USMC tattoo on his left forearm. "Served in 'Nam, just like me."

Ben returned his focus to the elderly gent he was shaving, feigning indifference. "That so?"

"Yup. Met him a coupla weeks ago at the Super-Fresh. Name's Walter Skinner."

The older barber nodded at Skinner. "Good to know ya. Ben Hargrove. Danny's uncle. How long you been in town, Mr. Skinner?"

"It's Walter. Or Walt. 'Bout two months now."

"Don't think I've seen ya before, Walt."

Skinner took off his glasses and tucked them into his breast shirt pocket. "I keep pretty much to myself."

"What do you--"

"That's enough, Ben." Scowling, Danny limped ever so slightly over to where Skinner sat waiting for him. "Walt came here for a haircut, not a fucking interrogation. Uh, pardon my French, Mr. Jenkins."

Ben's hitherto silent customer only snorted. "S'okay. I'm getting' used to the way you young people talk these days."

The 49-year-old shared a smile in the mirror with Skinner as he tied a faded green plastic cape around his thick neck. "Yes, sir."

Silence reigned for a few minutes until, freshly shaved and ready to face the world, Mr. Jenkins followed Ben to the cash register.

"So," Danny said quietly under the chatter of the other two men, "guess he hasn't turned up yet."

Skinner stared straight ahead, his reflection slightly out-of-focus. He had to swallow to get the words out. "No. Not yet."

"He will."

"He has to. Or..." He couldn't finish.

Ben finally bid good-bye to Mr. Jenkins, then turned to his nephew. "Going outside for a smoke, Danny."

"Uh-huh." He could sense Skinner relax as the older man exited the shop. "Sorry about Ben. He's a nosy old bugger, but he's harmless."

"Don't worry about it. He's only looking out for you. Me being the 'mysterious stranger' in town and all."

Danny finished spraying Skinner's hair, then got to cutting. "Ben and my Aunt Sophie never had kids, and he's always been like a second father to me. Treated me good. Even after 'Nam. Especially after my dad died. It's Ben's shop, you know. Everybody thinks it's mine because of the name, but Ben doesn't give a shit. You still got parents living?"

Skinner then talked about his family just as easily as he'd told Danny who he really was--not vacationing gym teacher-cum-novelist John R. Melvin, the name the Lone Gunmen had given him. The name he'd rented a car and checked into the Highwayman Motel under. The name he knew wouldn't fool his Bureau superiors for much longer.

Running into Danny Hargrove at the Super-Fresh was the best thing--the only good thing--that had happened to Walter Skinner since he'd come back to Bellefleur to await Mulder's return. He'd almost wept with relief when he spotted the tattoo on Danny's left forearm, finally having the desire--and a plausible reason--to strike up a conversation with someone. To connect with another human being. An unexpected visit from his brother in early June had been all too brief, and he'd been hurting even more since then, if that was possible.

Because of his fugitive status, Skinner hadn't put the slightest effort into making friends with the few people he came into contact with since arriving in Oregon. But there was something about the fellow former Marine that put him immediately at ease, and broke his initial resolve to remain as invisible and detached as possible.

By the time he and Danny had paid for their groceries and reached the parking lot, they'd exchanged names, professions, and the major war stories: the ambush of Skinner's unit and his near-death experience, and the landmine that cost Danny his right leg from just above the knee.

The next thing Skinner knew, he was heading back to Danny's house for dinner, treated with suspicious respect by his wife and three kids. Considering that Danny was more than a year older than he was, Skinner was surprised he had such young children. But, over the course of the evening, he learned why it had taken Danny so long to settle down and start a family.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Danny's problems began overseas while recovering from his injuries, and he was shipped home addicted to both painkillers and self pity. The 20-year-old expected more than a little compassion from the good folks of Bellefleur but, like most of the young Americans who fought in Vietnam, got less than a hero's welcome. Whether it was the long hair, or the tattoo, or the wheelchair, no one seemed to want to spend any time with him. Not even his girlfriend or former classmates. This rejection by the old guard made Danny angrier, more bitter, more dependent on drugs and alcohol. So, as soon as he got used to his new prosthetic leg--which the government had refused to pay for--he hitch-hiked to Los Angeles, where he committed a string of petty crimes to support his various wretched habits.

He lived like that for five years before almost OD'ing on some exceptionally bad shit. But fortune was smiling on Danny Hargrove that day because, when he collapsed, he did so in front of a branch of the Salvation Army. He would've loathed being someone's charity case if he hadn't been too comatose to notice. At first it didn't look as though he'd pull through, but his caregivers were just as mulish as Danny was. When he finally regained consciousness and figured out what was going on, he made every effort to hate them and their sunny Christianity. Tried to resent being their pet project. But, in the end, he couldn't. Even during the worst moments of withdrawal, he couldn't bring himself to take out all his frustrations or completely vent his anger on people who genuinely gave a damn about him.

Especially Lisa Stanhope, the emergency room nurse who volunteered at the rehab clinic. She was young and pretty and kind to everyone, one-legged former junkies included. Determined to stay clean, Danny got himself a job at the clinic doing odd jobs and giving the occasional haircut--a skill he'd been learning from his dad before enlisting. In return, he was given room and board. And the chance to bask in Lisa's presence several times a week. Falling in love with the sweet-natured nurse was no big surprise. But having her return Danny's feelings was. When she suggested they get married, he wept like a child.

But Lisa's proposal had a catch: she insisted that they start their lives over in Bellefleur. She'd lost her parents and younger brother in a house fire while she was away at school, and knowing that Danny had family back in Oregon--people who didn't know whether he was dead or alive--tore at her heart. Besides, she didn't want to raise children in LA. 

Danny was scared shitless how his folks would react when he appeared unannounced at their door. In all the years he'd been away from home, he'd never once written or called. But the Hargroves welcomed their prodigal son and his new bride with something akin to religious fervour. As they forgave Danny, he in turn forgave those who'd once turned their backs on him, and took his place among them. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A week after having dinner with Danny and his family, a horrible dream woke Skinner at midday, and he couldn't get back to sleep. He arrived at the barbershop 30 minutes later, just as Danny was heading out to grab some lunch, and asked if he could tag along. Danny was delighted.

The two vets spent over an hour in a booth at the back of a nearby diner but, this time, it was Danny's turn to listen. And he was all ears as Skinner told him that this, his second visit to Bellefleur, wasn't official Bureau business at all, like he'd initially implied. That his best agent had been abducted the last time he was here, and he'd come back because he had reason to believe that the missing man would be returned--a belief not shared by his colleagues. He even fessed up that he'd punched out a fellow Assistant Director and was now on the lam.

Skinner hesitated for only a second when Danny asked if he had a picture of Mulder, then pulled out his wallet and showed his new friend the photo he carried with reckless sentimentality. It was a shot of him and Mulder, cheek to cheek, grinning foolishly into the camera. Danny glanced from the photo to Skinner's wedding band, then met his apprehensive gaze. But the barber's eyes were filled with kindness, along with understanding. When Danny patted his arm awkwardly, Skinner nearly lost it.

But he also felt a helluva lot better than he had in weeks; he'd almost forgotten how completely draining it was to deceive and suppress and deny all the time.

The only thing he wasn't forthright about was who--or what--had taken Mulder. There was no sense in having Danny think he was off his fucking nut.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It didn't take long for Danny to trim Skinner's hair, so he prolonged the visit by making them coffee. Ben finally sauntered back into the shop with a new customer in tow, then two more people showed up minutes later, so Skinner took his leave, promising to keep in touch.

For a change, he was in a fairly good mood while he shopped at the Super-Fresh. But his high spirits vanished into the ether when, arms full of groceries, he spotted a stocky young man leaning against his car.

Fuck.

"Something I can do for you, Sheriff Haynes?"

"Here," he said, reaching for one of the bulging plastic bags. "Let me give you a hand."

But Skinner refused the help. He knew what was coming and couldn't be bothered to play nice. "Look, Sheriff. I'm hot and itchy and just want to get back to my room before my better melts. Just say what you--" 

"Thought you'd be interested to know that Billy Miles turned up this morning. Alive."

"Oh, my God." Deputy Miles--along with his father, Jerry, plus Deputy Ray Hoese, Hoese's wife, and a local boy--vanished shortly before Mulder was taken. For the first time in weeks, the terrible tightness around Skinner's heart slackened, if only slightly. "Where? What happened? How is he?"

The Sheriff looked around, making sure no one else was within hearing distance. "Papers don't know about this yet. A farmer found him at daybreak, stumbling around in one of his fields. Billy was still pretty out of it when two of my men got there. Didn't seem to be hurt too badly. Doctors are checking him out now."

Skinner squeezed his eyes shut. Billy Miles was back. Just as Mulder'd predicted. Oh, Jesus.

"AD Skinner? You all right?"

"Yeah." He shivered, despite the heat, and met the Sheriff's steady gaze. "I don't suppose I have to ask you how you knew I was here."

"Got a call from Washington a couple of weeks back. They told me you were in town."

The AD folded his arms across his chest, raised his chin a little, so that he had to look at the lawman from an even greater height. "You here to fetch me?"

Haynes bristled. "I'm nobody's dog, sir. Not even the FBI's."

Skinner said nothing. Just raised his eyebrows and waited.

"I don't have to tell you any of this, you know. I'm doing you a favour here."

"Why?"

The Sheriff shrugged. "Guess I didn't like the guy's attitude. You and Agent Mulder showed some respect when you were here in the spring. But *him*? Talked down to me like I was some kind of fucking idiot from the sticks."

One of Kersh's pinch-faced lackeys, no doubt. "So what did he want?" Skinner asked.

"To keep an eye on you, mainly. Let them know if you cause any trouble, leave town, disappear. Things like that."

"I see."

Haynes removed his hat to wipe the sweat off his forehead, squinted up at Skinner. "Mr. Skinner, I feel bad that something happened to your agent in my town." His gaze flicked momentarily to the gleaming gold ring on Skinner's left hand. "But you're not doing Agent Mulder or yourself any good by being here. I admire your loyalty and everything, but if he shows up--" 

"*When*, damnit. *When* he shows up."

"Right. Sorry. *When* he shows up, you'll be the first person I call. I promise. You should go home to your wife. Aren't you lonely out here all by yourself?"

"Yes," Skinner ground out, close to breaking for the second time today. "And I don't have a wife." Then he saw the realization dawn in the Sheriff's eyes.

"Oh. Oh. Okay. Shit. Look, I didn't mean to stick my--"

"Forget it." Skinner cleared his throat. "Doesn't matter. Nothing does, except finding him."

"I'm sure we will. Just like Billy. Oh." He readjusted his hat. "I don't know if this is relevant, but several people reported seeing weird, bright lights in the sky early this morning. Uh, in the same area where they found Billy later."

"Oh?" God. Oh, God.

"Probably doesn't mean anything, but we had similar reports when Billy and the others disappeared. Anyway, I should let you get your groceries home." 

Abashed over his earlier shitty attitude, Skinner stuck out his hand. "Thanks. For telling me about Deputy Miles, I mean."

Haynes accepted the outstretched paw and shook it. "No problem. And I'll let you know if--*when* the others turn up."

"I appreciate that."

"The Highwayman. Room 13, right?" Haynes had the grace to look somewhat sheepish.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Sheriff Robert J. Haynes was as good as his word. For the next several weeks, as the missing residents of Bellefleur began popping up around the county, he got in touch with the families first, then Skinner and, finally, the media.

The first one after Billy Miles was Teresa Hoese. A garbage truck doing its rounds had made the discovery the following Thursday, among bags of trash in front of the municipal sewage plant. Like Billy, Teresa was a lot thinner but in generally good shape physically, though she'd been comatose when found and remained so. Billy, on the other hand, hadn't stopped raving since his return and was now languishing in a psychiatric facility in Portland.

Haynes contacted Skinner the next week to let him know that Gary Edward Corey had been found wandering around downtown Bellefleur in the wee hours. The young man's hair had gone completely white but, while he looked older than his years, he'd regressed to his early childhood. The doctors wanted to send him upstate, to the same asylum where Billy was, but Gary's parents refused. He died three days later after suffering a massive coronary. He was 21. 

Teresa Hoese's husband and Billy's father showed up nearly two weeks later, within days of each other. Ray claimed he couldn't remember a damned thing--hell, at first he'd refused to believe it was August and not still May--and divided his time between sitting at Teresa's bedside at Bellefleur General Hospital and helping his in-laws care for his infant son. Detective Miles was diagnosed as being severely depressed and placed under a 24-hour suicide watch.

If anyone from the Bureau knew what was happening in Bellefleur, no one had showed up to check it out. As far as Skinner could tell, anyway. He wasn't invited to help Haynes with the official investigation and, in all honesty, that was fine with him. He had his own work to do. His own way.

After his initial discussion with the Sheriff at the Super-Fresh, Skinner had stepped up his nighttime patrol of the area where he'd last seen Mulder, doggedly determined that he would be the one to find his lover.

Now, 12 excruciatingly long days after Jerry Miles' return, it was a struggle for Skinner to keep his hopes up.

He'd been dozing fitfully through a rainy Friday afternoon when he got the call.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Bellefleur General Hospital  
August 18, 2000  
3:19 p.m.

"Where is he? Take me to him. NOW!"

Haynes took a step backward and placed his palm against Skinner's chest to put a modicum of space between them. "He's in a private room. You can see him in a minute. Here." He shoved a manila envelope into the other man's twitching fingers.

Skinner looked at the package as though he'd been handed an alien artifact. "What the hell is this?"

"His personal effects. Wallet. FBI shield. Jewellery. Keys. But his weapon is under lock and key at the station. You can claim it whenever you want."

"Yeah. Sure." Skinner peered into the envelope, removed Mulder's commitment ring, and slipped it into the front pocket of his chinos. "Room number?" It was more of an order than a question.

The Sheriff shifted uncomfortably. "I know you're anxious, but there's--"

"You don't know shit." He turned away. "If you won't help me, I'll find someone who will."

"Mr. Skinner, wait."

"Fuck you."

Without a thought for his personal safety, Haynes caught up to the bigger man, grabbed his arm and spun him around. "Listen, damnit! I'll take you to him. But there's a few things you should know first."

The rage that Skinner'd been broadcasting suddenly switched channels, his face draining of all colour. He thought of the others: the Corey kid dead, all of the rest of them but Ray Hoese fucked up in some horrible way. "What--?" He swallowed, choking back the stirrings of fear. "What's wrong with him?"

Sometimes Haynes really hated his job. He rubbed at his face, the sound of callused fingers against day-old stubble too loud in the empty hospital corridor. "C'mere." He led the way to a small waiting room and pushed Skinner into an old vinyl chair. "A salesman called the station this morning. Said there was a crazy person running down the highway between here and Eden Mills."

Oh, God. "Was he--did someone *hit* him?"

"No! No, nothing like that. The State Troopers got there before we did, and when they finally caught up with him, they had one helluva time getting him off the road. Thought he'd escaped from the nuthouse or something, he was so--uh--"

Skinner was about to wring the man's neck. "What? He was so what?"

"Mr. Skinner." Haynes looked him directly in the eye. "I was here when they brought Agent Mulder in, and I've never seen anyone so damned scared in my entire life. Poor guy'd pissed himself and everything. They had to sedate him. Heavily."

"Jesus Christ." Just what had they done to Mulder on board that fucking spacecraft? If Skinner hadn't been sitting down, his legs would've given out on him.

"It was the only way the doctors could examine him. They had no choice. Believe me."

The question had to be asked. "You said 'a few things.' There were 'a few things' wrong with him. What else?"

The Sheriff sighed. "They found evidence of surgery." He had to look down at his hands; the other man's grief was too difficult to bear head on. "Brain surgery."

As if receiving a blow to the stomach, Skinner leaned forward. He removed his glasses and scrubbed at his eyes with the knuckles of the hand still clutching the envelope. Brain surgery. Dear God.

"Doctors think it happened six to eight weeks ago," Haynes continued. "The wound's healed nicely. Whoever cut him knew what he was doing."

Skinner raised his head slowly. "Anything else, Sheriff?"

"I'm sorry, but yes." The wild, bright eyes boring into him made answering that question even more difficult. "He hasn't made a sound since we found him. Not even when he was, uh, yelling. Or crying."

He could taste bile. "What? What do you mean? Why not? Did they--" He couldn't go on. His spinning head was filled with images of Mulder having his tongue ripped out, his throat crushed, his larynx severed.

"At this point, the doctors say there's no physical reason for him being like this. For not talking or anything. Can I get you some water?"

Slapping his wirerims back into place, Skinner stood, not without difficulty. "No. Just take me to him. Right now."

"Of course. Okay. Sure. Come with me."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Shit. He must've been more tired--more shell-shocked--than he thought, because he'd just walked into the wrong room.

He sure as hell didn't know the scrawny slab of alabaster sleeping in the lone bed--a younger version of crazy-ass Howard Hughes, complete with full beard, straggly grey-flecked hair, and long yellowed fingernails.

But before Skinner had fully backed out the door, something about the man's drawn face stopped him.

Oh, sweet Jesus.

There was no mistaking that nose. Or that mouth.

Burning with shame, he staggered over to the side of the bed that was free of the IV line and leaned over the railing. "Fox," he whispered, tenderly pushing overgrown bangs off Mulder's forehead so he could plant a trembling kiss upon it. "I'm here, babe. I'm here." He trailed unsteady fingers down Mulder's bearded cheek to his shoulder, then on to his hand, horrified to find he couldn't lift it.

"Goddamn them. God fucking damn them!" It took him mere minutes to undo the restraints that had Mulder pinned to the mattress like a specimen. Skinner bit back a cry of fury when he uncovered wrists that had obviously been cuffed recently.

Someone was going to pay for that.

Tamping down his rage, he dragged a chair over to the bed and sat as close to Mulder as he could. He picked up a limp hand and brought it to his lips, gently kissing the wounded skin, before placing it back down on the bed. "I'm so sorry I didn't find you first," he whispered, stroking Mulder's arm. "So sorry. I'll never let anyone take you away from me again. Ever."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Something was wrong.

No, not wrong. Different. Better.

For the first time in as long as he could remember, he wasn't cold. Or in a lot of pain. The slight, warm pressure engulfing his right hand felt, well, pleasant.

Very strange.

And he'd been dreaming. About *him*. He wanted to go back to sleep and dream some more. He couldn't recall what the dream had been about, but he knew *he'd* been in it. Of that he was certain. He'd heard *his* voice. Mulder hadn't heard an actual voice for a very long time, so hadn't understood what was said, although one tiny word in particular had been frustratingly familiar.

Whatever they'd given him the last time, he hoped they'd give it to him again. Anything that would make him feel like this, make him dream again and hear *him* speak, was A-okay in his books.

He lay still, keeping his breathing even, praying that his body hadn't betrayed him. That they hadn't yet noticed he was coming around. But as he continued to play possum, he noticed something else. Odours. Aromas he'd encountered all too often before he'd been taken. Something distinctly antiseptic, medicinal. Something else with a strong pine scent. And something rich and warm and, again, familiar.

His nostrils twitched involuntarily, and he heard the voice--*his* voice--saying the little word he felt he should know.

Mulder was afraid to open his eyes. He was afraid not to.

The decision became an easy one when he felt his right arm moving, bending from the elbow. He turned his head toward it, saw it arc, watched his hand come to rest against the side of a face.

A human face.

*His* face.

Oh, God.

Mulder twisted his wrist so he could touch the soft skin, as if to confirm its existence. If he was, in fact, still asleep, he never wanted to wake up. Better to die dreaming such a dream than to endure one more second of the waking nightmare that had been his life for so long now.

When the hand that had been holding his slid down a spell but not away, Mulder's fingers reached up and felt the relatively cool metal of the arm of a pair of eyeglasses. Yes, they seemed to be real, too. Just as real as the slightly prickly chin, the quivering lips, the wet cheek he was now stroking.

He never wanted to believe in anything so badly.

Still maintaining eye contact with the beautiful apparition before him, Mulder drew back his hand and licked the pads of his fingers.

Salt. He could taste salt. The salt of tears. Genuine tears. *His* tears.

Mulder's eyes also filled as he was gathered up and held against a substantial, shuddering chest. His sobs matched the other man's in intensity, if not in volume.

They were the first tears he'd shed in three months that weren't the result of one form of punishment or another.

He was home, and it was wonderful to be there.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

What on earth?

Angela McDermott, RN, was only 20 minutes into her shift, and already there was trouble.

"Sir? SIR?"

"Shush."

The diminutive nurse, dressed in pastel pink from head to foot, took another step into the room and placed her hands on her hips. "Don't you shush me," she warned. "The beds are for patients only. You'll have to get down from there."

"No."

The rude, balding man was sitting with his back to her, holding onto the patient--one Fox Mulder--and slowly rocking back and forth. Mr. Mulder, apparently asleep, had his arms locked around the visitor's neck. She checked his chart, clucked sharply, then approached the bed so she wouldn't have to raise her voice.

"I don't know who you are, mister, but we have rules in this hospital, and if you're not prepared to follow them, you're going to have to leave."

This time, he glanced at her over his shoulder, his eyes red-rimmed and dangerous. "I'm not going anywhere."

It was his tone of voice--rather than how he looked, the way he glared at her--that made Nurse McDermott back off. "Fine," she said, refusing to show any fear. "I'm calling Security."

Baldy dismissed her with a turn of his head. "You do that."

She stormed out of the room, hands clenched into fists. It was going to be a long night.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Skinner heard the door open behind him again and sighed into Mulder's hair.

"See?" Fuck. Nurse Ratched was back. "Just like I told you, Doctor."

"Thank you, Angie." A male voice he didn't recognize. "That'll be all. For now."

"Um, Mr. Skinner?"

Ah. She *had* brought the law.

"Yes, Sheriff?"

"There's someone here who wants to talk to you," Haynes said quietly.

Skinner shifted a bit so he could see Haynes and company while continuing to support Mulder, still asleep in his arms. Standing beside the Sheriff was an imposing figure in a white lab coat, carrying a clipboard. Mulder's doctor, presumably.

"Assistant Director Skinner? This is Dr. Boyd Robinson. I told him you're from the FBI, too. That they sent you all the way from Washington, DC to look for Agent Mulder."

Damned decent of the Sheriff to try to cover for him, Skinner mused. Still, there weren't many men his position at the Bureau who'd be likely to hold a male colleague the way he was holding Mulder.

But Robinson wasn't appeased by the half-assed explanation. "Sheriff, I don't care if he's Edgar J. Hoover, returned all the way from the grave. This is my patient, and I'm the one who decides whether to remove his restraints or not. And who can visit him and when."

"He may be 'your patient,' Doctor," Skinner growled, "but he's my *life*. You will not tie him to this bed or sedate him again, and I am not leaving his side until he's released from this hospital."

Haynes cut in ahead of the fuming doctor. "Mr. Skinner, you weren't here when they brought him in, okay? You didn't see how wild he was. Totally freaked out. Hell, he didn't remember me at all. Even took a swing at me."

Skinner continued to stroke Mulder's back. "He remembered *me*. And he was as meek as, well, as a lamb." His bloodshot eyes hardened. "And you're a fine one to talk about violent behaviour, Sheriff. The bruises and abrasions on his arms are fresh, not to mention the cuff marks. He was a victim, for fuck's sake, not a perp."

"AD Skinner." Haynes raised his hands, palms out, in a defensive gesture. "I'm sorry about that, but the State Troopers and my people didn't have any other options. They had to subdue him. He wouldn't get off the road and into the squad car, wouldn't let the ER staff do any tests or check him out. For all we knew, he was spaced out on PCPs or something."

Yeah. Mulder had been spaced out, all right. "So you drugged the shit out of him and trussed him up. Wonderful."

Seeing an opening, Robinson jumped in. "Like the Sheriff said, you weren't there, so--"

"I know, but I should've been. Haynes, what the hell took you so long to call me?"

The Sheriff ran his hands up over his face and through a mass of dark curls. "They didn't know who he was at first. He wouldn't talk or show them any ID. When I saw him down in the ER, it took me a few minutes to recognize him. I called you as soon as I had the chance."

Skinner closed his eyes. He knew he shouldn't be lashing out at these people. That they were only doing their jobs. But Christ! Hadn't Mulder been through enough already? He took a deep breath, then looked at Robinson, making a colossal effort to control his temper. "When can I take him home?"

The abrupt change of demeanour left the doctor tongue-tied for all of two seconds. "I'm not sure at this point. Maybe a week, depending on how well he responds to treatment. He's dehydrated and malnourished, and he's lost a fair bit of weight, along with some muscle tone. When his physical condition improves, I'd like him to see a neurosurgeon and a psychiatrist to find out why he's not talking." Robinson snapped Mulder's chart shut and looked back up at Skinner. "Sir, since you appear to be so close to Agent Mulder, what can you tell me about that thing behind his right ear?"

He froze. Oh, dear God. "What thing?" Before the doctor could answer, Skinner let Mulder slide sideways, just a little, and gently pushed the hair away from the area in question. With the lightest touch possible, he ran the tip of his forefinger over the smooth skin.

The doctor had come closer, was now leaning over his shoulder. "Find it yet?"

Indeed he had. Skinner's finger stopped moving to settle on a tiny discoloured bump. An implant. Like Scully's, only smaller. Jesus.

"Well?" Robinson prodded.

"Yes. I found it." He pulled Mulder back up into a sitting position and held him against his chest protectively.

"Perhaps tomorrow I'll excise it, see what--"

"NO!"

The doctor stumbled backward, as if struck. "So you're his physician as well as his keeper, hmmm?"

It was all Skinner could do not to wipe the sneer off the doctor's face with the back of his hand. "Listen, you smug son-of-a-bitch. One my other agents had a similar experience. I've seen this type of--*technology*--before, and I know what happens when someone fucks with it. You will not, under any circumstances, attempt to remove it. Am I making myself clear?"

"Yes," Robinson bristled. "It's clear that you have no respect for authority. Who the hell do you think you are that you can just walk into my hospital and order everybody around like you own the place and threaten--"

"Um, Doc?" The Sheriff tapped him on the shoulder, then inclined his head toward the bundle of bones in Skinner's arms. "I think your patient's waking up."

Sure enough, Mulder was stirring. He opened his eyes groggily, shook his head a few times, and pulled slightly away from his human pillow. Leaving one hand on the back of Skinner's neck, he brought the other one down and touched Skinner's face, tentatively, as though it would disappear if disturbed.

Skinner smiled at Mulder--the kind of smile neither the Sheriff nor the doctor expected from the man--and captured the exploring hand in his, bringing it to rest against his heart. "It's okay, babe," he said softly. "I'm here. I'm real. Not going anywhere."

Mulder smiled back, gently.

"You're gonna get better and I'm gonna take you home--"

"Since he's awake," Robinson interrupted, "I might as well--"

Upon hearing the stranger's voice, and realizing there were others in the room, Mulder threw himself at Skinner, wrapping his arms around the startled man in a punishing hold, shaking like he would soon fall apart.

"Fox. Fox! It's okay. They're not going to hurt you. I won't ever let anyone hurt you again. It's okay."

To the observers' astonishment, Skinner was able to calm Mulder down to the point where he allowed himself to be examined, although he never completely stopped trembling.

And he kept his eyes locked with Skinner's and clutched his hand tightly, leaving several small marks that Skinner didn't notice until much later.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Between the sedatives and everything else he'd endured, Mulder didn't have much staying power, and managed to drift off while having his blood pressure taken. Skinner made sure Mulder was tucked in and comfortable, then resumed his bedside post, expecting to resume battle over his presence there.

But the doctor surprised him and left without further argument, announcing he had other patients to see.

Skinner's reaction--a combination of confusion and disappointment--made the corners of Haynes' mouth twitch. "I've known Boyd a long time," the Sheriff told him. "That's about as close to admitting he's wrong as he's gonna get."

"You mean he's going to let me stay?"

"Looks that way." The Sheriff indicated Mulder with a nod of his head. "You're the only one he doesn't go berserk around. Boyd may be an arrogant bastard, but he's a good doctor. He can see that you're the best thing for Agent Mulder."

"I hope you're right," Skinner muttered. "Look, Sheriff, you should probably be home by now, but would you mind, uh, hanging around for a few more minutes? I've got to call some people back home. Friends and colleagues of ours. I doubt he'll come to any time soon, but if he does, I'll just be on the phone down the hall, so come and get me, okay?"

The Sheriff sank gratefully into the chair vacated by Skinner. "Sure. Take your time. I told my wife I was gonna be late tonight."

"Thanks."

"No problem. While you're at it, why don't you go down to the cafeteria and get something to eat? You must be hungry by now."

He was. Had to pee, too. He hadn't thought about anything but Mulder since he'd arrived at the hospital, what--seven hours ago? Eight? He'd lost track.

He decided to use the bathroom first, then the phone, then eat. And he would make it quick; he wanted to be there when Mulder woke up. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She picked up on the second ring. "Scully."

"Hi, Dana. It's me."

He heard a sharp intake of breath. They hadn't spoken since he'd fled DC; she had to know why he was calling. "Please tell me you found him."

He wished he had, personally. "He's here. At the hospital."

A longer pause this time. She cleared her throat. "Oh, Walter. Thank God. How is he?"

It was Skinner's turn to take a moment to compose himself. "He's--he's a bit of a mess."

"What do you mean?"

"I didn't recognize him at first." He chuckled, but it was a strange, hollow laugh, devoid of mirth. "He looks like that wino--you know, Larry. The one who's always hanging around the employee entrance of the Hoover."

"Walter, are you all right?"

"And he's mute, if you can believe it! Fox Mulder--as quiet as a church mouse. I'm pretty sure he can hear, but he just stares at me when I talk to him, like I'm speaking gibberish, and he's got an implant--smaller than yours--behind his right ear, and the stupid doctor wanted to remove it, but I told him--"

"Walter."

"--that there was no fucking way--"

"Walter! Stop it! Get a hold of yourself!"

"Hmmm? What? Oh, sorry."

"Listen to me, Walter. I'm going to hang up now and call the airport and take the next available flight to Oregon. Okay?"

"You don't have to--"

"I'm coming, so don't argue with me. I need to see him. I need to see *you*."

Skinner slumped against the wall, the brief panic attack having left him drained. And feeling foolish. "Thank you."

She sighed. "You're welcome. Just take it easy. You've got to be strong for him. For all of us. Okay?" 

"I--I'll do my best."

"Do you want me to tell the guys for you?"

She'd read his mind, the little saint. "Would you? I want to get back to Fox as soon as possible."

"I'll call Frohike right after I book my flight. Now, go give my partner a hug for me."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

August 19, 2000  
11:44 a.m.

Dana Scully walked into Room 330 of Bellefleur General to be greeted by a bittersweet tableau. The two men were in the small bed, one asleep under the covers, the other leaning back against the wall, stroking the head that rested low on his chest. Skinner had been right when he'd described Mulder as being able to pass for a street person. But he himself wasn't much of an improvement. His eyes were swollen, clothes rumpled. He was leaner, more angular, than she'd ever seen him. And he was in desperate need of a shave.

"Hi," she called softly, drawing his attention.

"Dana. Hi." He began to untangle himself from Mulder's unconscious embrace.

Scully advanced toward him. "Please, don't get up."

Without disturbing Mulder, Skinner shrugged and slipped out of bed. "S'okay. My butt was starting to fall asleep anyway."

Her eyes went back to her partner. "How is he?"

Another shrug. "About the same. Well, he seems to recognize his name now."

Scully arched an eyebrow.

"First and last," he continued, answering the unasked question. He squinted at his Bart Simpson watch. "God, it's almost noon. Did you get in last night or this morning?"

"This morning. Just now." She was still wearing the same outfit--light blue cotton slacks and a floral tee-shirt--she'd flown out in. "How long has he been asleep?"

"Three hours. No, four." The blinds were shut, but Skinner's eyes had adjusted enough to notice that Scully didn't look quite right. "What about you, Dana? How are you doing? And the baby?"

"Ummm." She wrapped her arms around her middle and lowered her eyes. "I, um, didn't want to tell you by e-mail--" 

"Oh, no..."

"Yes. I lost it." Her lower lip began to quiver. "Three--three weeks ago."

Skinner felt sick. "I'm so sorry."

"I--I--" She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle an anguished moan.

Then Skinner was there, pulling her into his arms. She went willingly, sobbing into the front of his shirt as he patted her back. He couldn't help but shed a few tears of his own.

"Sorry," she snuffled a few minutes later, making no move to break the hug.

"Don't be. It's okay."

"When it happened," she said, her voice a little stronger, "I told myself it was for the best, you know? I mean, if that old man-- " She shuddered. "I hope for his sake that he really is dead, like Krycek said."

"Yeah. Me too." Scully had told him and Mulder about being drugged by the cigarette smoker, about waking up in a strange bed to find she'd been undressed, about how the bastard had later wined and dined her. To think that he might have not only implanted the ovum, but also been the sperm donor. Jesus H. Christ. 

"But I can't lie to myself." She started to cry again, softly. "After you took off and they reassigned me to Kersh, I stayed out of the field and took it easy. Requested desk work, more time at Quantico. Maybe I'm crazy, but I really wanted that child. No matter who the biological father was. It was half mine, Walter."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When Skinner returned from the vending machine with a cup of what was advertised as hot tea, Scully was sitting beside Mulder. Her nose was a little red, but she'd washed her face and looked a lot better.

"Stay there," he told her when she started to get up. "Here." 

"Thanks." She sank back down and gratefully accepted the paper cup he handed her.

He fussed with Mulder's blanket, then sat on the side of the bed, facing Scully, his long legs stretched out in front of him. "You okay?"

"Yeah." She tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "You?"

He nodded, taking Mulder's hand without even looking for it. "How are things at the Hoover?"

She almost welcomed the change of subject. "Same old, same old. You know."

"Kersh made Director yet?"

Scully snorted. "No, not yet." Telling Skinner, via e-mail, about AD Kersh's promotion to Deputy Director hadn't been something she'd relished, but she figured her boss had the right to know what was happening in his absence.

"How's Doggett?"

She'd also told him that Kersh had partnered her up with a buddy of his--John Doggett, from the New York office--and that the two of them were reporting directly to the DD.

"Oh, he's all right." She sipped some tea. "Nothing I can't handle."

"*That* I believe," he chuckled while rubbing at his bristly face. "But you've got to be careful, Dana. They know I'm out here, so they probably know you are, too. I think it's great that you've come to see Fox, but they might use it against you."

"And do what? Fire me? Walter, for the last couple of years, only two things have kept me at the Bureau, and that's you and Mulder." She reached out and patted Skinner's knee. "I'm a good pathologist. I'll find something if they decide to hand me my pink slip."

He was ridiculously pleased that she considered him nearly as good a friend as Mulder. "I know."

Scully frowned. "I should quit anyway."

"Why? What happened?"

"Nothing. Tell me more about Mulder."

It wasn't like Scully to give up or be evasive. "Dana, I thought the three of us had agreed not to keep things from each other. What's going on at the Hoover to make you want to leave? Is it Doggett? Kersh?"

"No, Walter. It's not them. They're among the few who know the truth. At least most of it." She drank some more tea. "It's the other idiots who work there. A bunch of childish gossips, all of them. They're spreading rumours, saying the most asinine things."

"Like what?" he prompted.

She was obviously uncomfortable. And angry. "Like Mulder wasn't abducted, but ran away because he was jealous that I chose you over him. Just like in 'The Lazarus Bowl.'"

Skinner snorted. "What? Oh, for pity's sake. You mean they took that ludicrous movie to heart?"

"Guess so. But it gets worse," she lamented. "Not everyone thinks Mulder ran away. Some think he was murdered. By you. Over me."

He was shocked speechless.

"Apparently we were involved in some sort of sick love triangle, and there was a fight, and you killed Mulder and buried him in the woods here. Then you came home and made up a story about aliens abducting him. And now they think you're hiding out somewhere within driving distance of DC, and that's where I've been spending every spare moment."

"Christ Almighty." Skinner ran his hand over his head. "No wonder that place is so fucked up. I wouldn't be surprised if Kersh himself started those rumours."

"No, me neith--Hey," she said, her face suddenly luminous. "Look who's waking up."

Skinner shifted, putting himself in Mulder's direct line of sight just as sleepy eyes fluttered open. "Hi, Fox. How's my boy?"

Mulder gave him an endearing, drowsy smile and touched one of Skinner's coarse cheeks. He stroked it, and the smile broadened.

Skinner captured the curious hand and held it close to his heart. "Fox, someone very special is here to see you."

The grin faded and Mulder shook his head, the meaning of the words evidently lost on him. Scully couldn't even imagine what he must be thinking. How frustrated and frightened she would be in his position.

It then occurred to her that Mulder didn't even know she was in the room. At this point, his entire world revolved around only one person, and it sure as hell wasn't her.

"It's okay, babe," Skinner soothed, finger-combing Mulder's hair off his furrowed forehead. "It'll come back to you. You'll see. You remember Dana, right? Scully?"

Taking her cue, Scully scooted closer to Mulder. "Hi, partner," she whispered, gently touching his shoulder.

He flinched at the sound of another voice, at the unexpected contact, and that cut her. God, he'd known her longer than he'd known Skinner, whose hand, she noticed, he continued to grip.

Then Mulder's face relaxed, and recognition bloomed in those marvellous hazel eyes. He clutched at Skinner's thigh with the IV-laden hand and reached out to her with the other. Her breath hitched--she couldn't help it--and began to cry as they hugged clumsily, Skinner in the way, but trapped by Mulder's grasping fingers.

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Although he never once let go of Skinner, Mulder remained relatively calm and co-operative throughout Scully's casual examination. She kept her tone even and professional so as not to upset him, but often found it difficult.

"Walter, why is his hair shorter on this side?" she asked, pointing to the left side of Mulder's shaggy head.

Skinner absently squeezed Mulder's hand. "I thought I'd mentioned that earlier, but I guess not. The doctors said Fox had brain surgery a few weeks ago."

"Oh, my God." She fought to keep her voice steady. "Why? What did they want this time?"

"Hell if I know. Maybe," he swallowed, "maybe it has something to do with why he can't talk. Maybe they did something to his speech centre."

With the utmost care, she tried to tame the wild hair. "He still hasn't made a sound?"

"No. Nothing. Except for breathing. I'm not used to having this guy being so quiet, you know?"

Yeah, she knew. She also knew that Skinner was approaching his breaking point.

"Walter," she ventured, "why don't you go back to the motel and get some rest? You could also use a shower and a change of clothes, my friend."

He chuckled weakly, instantly piquing Mulder's interest. "I'm sure I do. But, at the risk of further offending your delicate sensibilities, I'll wait 'til Fox goes back to sleep. He seems to be rather, uh, attached to me at the moment."

Indeed he was; their fingers were linked in a stronger-than-steel bond.

"This can't be easy for you," she said.

"No, but he's home, and that's all that matters." Without the slightest embarrassment, he raised Mulder's hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. "I know he was only gone for three months, but each day he was missing felt like forever. Even if he never speaks again, at least he'll know that he's loved. I'll take care of him for the rest of my life if that's what he needs."

 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

After Mulder'd been asleep for about half an hour, Skinner took Scully's advice and headed back to the Highwayman.

He meant to lie down for just a few minutes. Take a catnap. Nothing more.

What woke him, finally, was the rumbling of his stomach. He sat up, completely disoriented. Why was it dark? Where the hell was he? What fucking day was it?

He fumbled with his right hand, nearly knocking the bedside lamp over in the search for his glasses.

Ah. The motel. Of course.

After righting the lamp, he turned it on and stared at the clock in disbelief. He'd slept through the rest of the afternoon. No wonder he was hungry.

He was sorely tempted to just grab his gear--which he'd wisely packed before lying down--and go back to the hospital. But one quick look in the bathroom mirror after he'd peed, one sniff of a ripe armpit, scuttled that idea soon enough. He thought about calling Scully, but was worried that the phone would disturb or startle Mulder, so he shaved, showered, and was out the door within 15 minutes.

The milk, bagel and banana he had in the car on the way to the hospital nearly came back up when he entered Mulder's room.

Skinner looked from the restraints to Scully, fixing her to the chair with a brutal glare. "What the fuck is going on?" He dropped his bag and advanced on the bed, setting to work on the wrist straps first.

She'd expected nothing less of him, but hoped he'd give her a chance to explaining before snapping her in two. Scully stood and went to the foot of the bed to begin freeing Mulder's ankles.

"Get away from him," Skinner barked, making her jump. To her credit, she stood her ground.

"Walter--"

"I said, don't touch him." There were fresh marks along Mulder's pale arms, and Skinner wanted to howl. And weep. And kill someone.

Scully, though, was fearless. "There was no other way!"

"Like hell there wasn't," he growled as he massaged the abused flesh. "And you let it happen."

"He was crazy with fear, Walter. He tried to get out of bed, all the lines were pulling away--"

"So you let them rough him up and tie him to the bed like--"

"You're not listening, damnit! He was terrified. Out of control. He could've really hurt someone. Or himself."

Skinner released the wrist he'd been soothing and moved toward Mulder's feet, effectively brushing Scully out of the way as he would a bothersome gnat. Dear God! Did no one but him truly care about Mulder? Was there no one he could trust? Not even Scully? "He's as weak as a kitten, for fuck's sake! He couldn't hurt anyone."

"Walter. Look at me." She sunk her nails into his bicep to get his attention. "He did. He hurt *me*, okay?"

Skinner looked down at her, aware at last of an angry red welt high on her right cheek. "No. Don't you try and tell me--"

"Yes, Walter. Yes. He hit me. I know he didn't mean to, but he did."

He sank onto the bed, Mulder's foot still between his hands. "Why? What--why did he-- what--?"

Scully dragged the chair over and sat down across from him. "I wish I'd never told you to go back to your room. I thought Mulder'd be okay with me if he woke up. But he wasn't. He wanted *you*, Walter. And he lost it--big time--because you weren't here."

"Shit." He took off his glasses, wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. "No. No. It was my fault. I shouldn't have lay down, at least not without setting the alarm. I should've been here for him."

"You didn't know."

"But I should've known. If I hadn't left--or if I'd just come back sooner--none of this would've happened." He looked at her injured cheek again. "Are you okay?"

"It's just a shiner. I've had worse." She tried to smile, mostly for his benefit. "Guess this makes us even for me shooting him that time."

Skinner appreciated the effort, and tried to smile back. "Yeah. Guess it does." He ran a shaky hand over Mulder's bare shin. "Look, Dana. I had no business coming down on you like that. I'm sorry."

"It's okay. I knew you weren't going to be very happy. For what it's worth, I didn't like it either, but until you got back--" She no longer had the energy to finish her thought.

"You've been here all day. Why don't you go to your hotel and eat something and get some rest? I can manage on my own for a while."

The prospect of a hot meal and an even hotter bath was too great a temptation to pass up. "I suppose I should put some ice on this--" She touched her face, wincing. "--before it gets really ugly. You sure you're gonna be all right?"

"I'm sure. Go on. Get out of here."

Scully tiptoed over to Mulder and kissed his forehead. "See you tomorrow, partner. Oh, jeez," she said, turning to Skinner. "I nearly forgot to tell you."

"What?"

"While he was sleeping earlier--before they sedated him--he moaned a few times. I think he was having a bad dream."

Skinner allowed his heart to soar just a little. "Did he say anything?"

"No, no words, but he *did* use his vocal chords, so we know they're still working."

"Thank God. Thanks for telling me."

"Sure." She came over to him and pressed her lips against his cheek. "Take it easy, Walter. I'll see you in the morning."

He waited until he could no longer hear her sandals slapping down the hard, linoleum tiles of the hallway, then crawled up the bed and settled in beside Mulder. "I'm so sorry, babe," he whispered, lightly kissing a tear-stained cheek. "God, I'm so sorry."

A couple of hours later, the night nurse walked in to check on Dr. Robinson's patient, and found an extra man in the bed, dead to the world. She rolled her eyes and left the room. At least he was wearing some clothes. She'd seen just about all there was to see in this hospital.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He fought with everything he had to come back, but it was like climbing out of a deep, greasy hole with his hands tied behind him. Whatever they'd shot him up with had done the trick, and his upper arm still ached from the injection. But that was nothing compared with what he felt inside, along with a crippling sense of loss. *He* hadn't been there when he'd woken up the last time, and now he had to snap out of it and get up and go find *him*.

Mulder tried to sit, but there was a dead weight lying across his chest. He presumed it was a strap. He vaguely remembered being tied down again. His hands were, remarkably, free, so he reached up to see if he could undo the restraint. But, instead of cloth, his fingers met with bare skin. An arm. A decidedly masculine arm. Sluggishly, he turned his head to the left and forced an eyelid open.

Thank goodness.

It was *him*, sound asleep, just inches away. He'd come back after all.

Enormously relieved, but still too drugged up to emote over it, Mulder clamped both hands over the burly forearm, hugging it fiercely to him. He wanted to remain conscious a little longer to savour the restored connection between them, but was powerless against the chemicals that ultimately dragged him back under.

The next time he came to, it was less difficult. And even more rewarding, because *he* had wakened first. They were lying on their sides, facing each other. *His* hand was resting on Mulder's hip.

"Hey, Fox. C'mere."

The big hand slid around his back, and Mulder immediately accepted the invitation to come closer. He wrapped his arms around *his* neck, plastered himself against *his* warm, strong body.

"I'm sorry, babe. So, so sorry. I didn't know that would happen. I went back to the motel, and I meant to lie down for only a few minutes, but..."

The sound of *his* voice was so soothing; almost as soothing as being cradled in *his* arms. He wanted to stay there forever, being petted and squeezed, zoning out on everything about this wonderful, wonderful man.

"...and you know I love you more than anything. I never should have left the hospital last night. I'm such a fucking idiot."

Mulder pulled back fractionally, put his index finger on *his* lips, and shook his head solemnly. The finger was kissed.

"Sorry. Morning breath, huh?"

Mulder started to shake his head again, then stopped. His eyes widened in latent realization and he touched *his* mouth, then tapped his own temple and nodded.

Skinner got it. "My God. Are you--do you understand what I'm saying?"

Mulder nodded enthusiastically.

"Oh, babe. Jesus. Thank God. Thank God."

Mulder beamed, and was pulled into another delicious hug. He'd made *him* happy, and hoped he could do it again. Soon.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

August 20, 2000  
8:27 a.m.

She'd iced it down and covered it up with makeup as best she could, but Scully couldn't completely hide the bruise under her left eye. And, when she greeted Mulder that morning, and he saw it, it was painfully obvious that he recalled what had happened the night before.

"Oh, Mulder," she soothed, picking up his right hand. (Skinner was in possession of the other one, of course). "Please don't cry. It's okay. It was an accident. You were upset. It's okay. I'm okay. Shhhh."

Damn. She hated seeing him like this. And she didn't want to start blubbering herself. Not only would that wash off her makeup, but also swell her face up all over again. Before she could snag a tissue from the night table, Skinner had already done so. She watched while he dried Mulder's tears, wiped his nose. But the love and trust that passed between the two men made the moment so intimate, so intense, that she bowed her head. It was only then that she realized something was different about the hand resting in hers.

"Hey." She looked back up. "They've taken him off the IV."

Skinner was now stroking Mulder's face. "Catheter too. Everything's in perfect working order."

That made her blush. "I see. Good. So. Has he had anything to drink yet, or is he still only allowed to have ice chips?"

"No. They let me give him some water. And he's getting beef broth and a protein shake for lunch."

Scully sighed. "According to his chart, he's lost over 30 pounds. It's going to take a while to get him back to normal."

"Yeah, but we will." He leaned forward to touch noses with Mulder. "Won't we, Fox?"

"Uh, Walter." Scully tilted her head. "Did he just nod? Like, in agreement?"

Skinner faced her, his eyes sparkling behind the lenses of his wirerims. "Uh-huh. He understands most of what people say now. Don't you, babe?"

Mulder nodded again.

Or, maybe Mulder was just picking up on the positive tone of Skinner's voice, and simply guessing right at what his response should be. God! When had she become so cynical and pessimistic? She forced a smile, praying that she was wrong this time.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In the beginning, lunch proved to be something of a challenge. While Mulder had no trouble drinking through a straw, the plastic soup spoon posed a problem. He had no idea what to do with it, turning it uselessly in his hand, looking back and forth from it to the styrofoam bowl of broth, eventually appealing to Skinner for help.

Skinner took the spoon from Mulder's anxious fingers, dipped it into the bowl he was holding, and blew gently on the hot liquid. After instructing Mulder to open wide, Skinner fed him the first mouthful. A tiny bit escaped from the corner of his mouth, but Skinner was there with a paper napkin before it could dribble down his chin.

"How's that? Not too hot? Taste okay?"

To his delight, Mulder wrinkled his nose a bit, then shrugged.

Scully actually laughed. "He's back, all right. Already complaining about the food."

He shrugged again, then opened his mouth for the next spoonful. This time, he wrapped his hand around Skinner's. By the end of the meal, he was feeding himself. But not once did he remove his other hand from its perch on Skinner's knee.

Not once.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Scully had gone in search of Robinson, to see about scheduling a CAT scan, while Skinner read a paperback and Mulder napped.

When he awakened about two hours later, indicating that he needed two things--Skinner, and to relieve himself--he shook his head when Skinner handed him the portable urinal. With a curt nod to the bathroom door, he kicked off the covers and swung his skinny legs over the side of the bed.

"Wait, wait." The tile floor was cold, and Mulder's feet were bare. Skinner's plan was to retrieve a pair of sweatsocks from his kit, but couldn't convince Mulder to let go of him so he could get them. Then Mulder was standing, a little wobbly, performing either the "I-have-to-pee" dance or the "this-floor-is-fucking-freezing" dance, or a creative combination of the two.

Glad he wasn't wearing sneakers, Skinner stepped out of his deck shoes and helped the younger man into them. Not the greatest fit, but they'd do. Once in the tiny bathroom, he stood behind Mulder, arms around his middle, while he peed. He smiled when Mulder shook off. Something else he remembered. Good. Good.

He shuffled Mulder over to the sink to help him wash his hands, again standing behind him. And Mulder was doing just fine, thank you, until he looked up from entwined soapy fingers and saw the hirsute stranger staring back at him from the mirror.

Skinner couldn't hear the gasp, but he sure as hell felt it.

Shit.

Mulder'd been aware of the beard and the straggly hair, but this was the first time he'd seen this altered version of himself head on. He raised one hand and extended it toward the mirror, touching his reflection, leaving greasy white swooshes that made it appear more surreal. He began to pound the glass, but Skinner grabbed his fist and pulled it away before he could do any damage. He had an awful time getting Mulder to turn around and, even then, Mulder wouldn't meet his gaze. He did, however, welcome the offered hug, and ground his face into the space between Skinner's chest and shoulder.

"Fox, it's only hair. When we get you out of here, I know someone who can make you look like you again. If that's what you want."

Mulder nodded, utterly miserable.

"You're still beautiful, you know."

The change in the way Mulder moved his head indicated he knew otherwise.

"Oh, yes you are. To me you are. You're still my beautiful boy. You always will be."

More head shaking ensued.

Skinner felt moisture on his shoulder. Damn. He placed his hands on either side of Mulder's head and carefully pushed it back. Still Mulder wouldn't look at him, so he took the quivering chin between his thumb and index finger, and lifted it.

"Fox. I love you. Not just the way you look, but everything about you. So please don't cry, okay?" He grabbed a nearby hand towel and dabbed at Mulder's wet face. "I don't know if you remember yet, but a couple of years ago, I was in the hospital myself, and I didn't look very good. Horrible, in fact. Really scary. But you didn't care, Fox. You stuck with me. Just like I'm gonna stick with you. No matter what. Okay?"

Sniffling, Mulder nodded weakly.

"Come on, tough guy. Let's rinse your hands and get you back to bed."

But the revelation in the mirror had zapped Mulder of what little energy he had to begin with, and his knees buckled after only two steps.

"Whoa. Gotcha." Skinner, who'd been supporting him anyway, scooped Mulder up in his arms--far too easily--and carried him out of the bathroom.

"Do you want me to get you a TV? Would you like that? We could watch a game or a movie or something. Whatever you want. I'll even let you be in charge of the remote. Just like at home."

Mulder looked like he wasn't quite sure what all that meant, but he tried to match Skinner's grin and nodded anyway.

Skinner reached for the phone to arrange for a television to be brought to the room when Mulder tugged at his left hand. There was panic in his eyes. "What, babe? What's the matter?"

Mulder took hold of Skinner's commitment ring, twisted it back and forth a few times, then pointed to his own ring finger. Which was bare. Before Skinner could react, Mulder felt around his neck for the chain that held his gold band when he couldn't wear it in public. No chain. The panic grew.

"Fox. Fox! It's okay. Look." Skinner reached into the neck of his tee-shirt and pulled out a chain from which dangled Mulder's ring. "See? It's right here. I've been keeping it safe for you. Do you want to wear it now?"

God, yes. Mulder's head bobbed up and down as he thrust out his left hand.

Skinner smiled, but his eyes stung viciously when he placed the ring on his lover's finger. So much had happened since the very first time he'd done that, and it just about killed him to think that the Fox Mulder he'd pledged himself to in Cape Cod--the Fox Mulder who'd pledged himself right back--might be gone for good.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The three of them were watching a nature documentary when Nurse McDermott banged into the room with a cart.

"Out," she directed at Skinner and Scully. "Time for the patient's sponge bath."

Mulder practically scrambled onto Skinner's lap, clutching at him frantically.

Ignoring everyone but Mulder, Skinner winced. "It's all right, Fox. I'm not going anywhere. Don't you worry. But we've got to do something about those nails before you slice me to ribbons."

Mulder loosened his hold, but remained glued to the bigger man, his back to the nurse.

"Mister--"

"Skinner."

"Mr. Skinner. I have my orders to bathe him."

He remained sitting on the bed, soothing Mulder. "I'll do it."

The petal-pink pygmy snickered. "You? That I'd like to see." 

"Suit yourself, if that's what you're into."

"Mr. Skinner!"

Scully decided it was time to get involved. "Nurse, uh, McDermott? I'm Agent Mulder's personal physician, and I can assure you that Mr. Skinner is quite capable of giving him a bath."

McDermott squinted at Scully. "You don't look like a doctor."

"Well, I am." She got up from the chair and walked over to McDermott, an impressive three inches taller. "My name's Dana Scully. *Doctor* Dana Scully. Now, why don't we leave Mr. Skinner to it before the water gets cold?"

The nurse sputtered. "You--you're not going to stay and supervise?"

"I've lived with the man for nearly two years," Skinner grumbled. "I don't need anybody's help to bathe him."

McDermott pushed the cart over to the bed. "Fine. Here. And don't forget to use the skin lotion on him. Coming, Dr. Scully?"

"In a minute." She turned to Skinner, clearly amused. "How long should I stay away, and can I get you anything?"

"Um, about 20, 30 minutes should do it. And I wouldn't mind some coffee. And milk for Fox. Oh! Before you go, could you please get my shaving kit from the bathroom?"

"You're going to shave him?"

"God, no. I'd be too nervous. No, I'm just going to trim his nails." He held up one of Mulder's hands. Two nails were broken and ragged--likely during his recent struggles--and the other three were, in Skinner's opinion, dangerously long. He had the scratch marks to prove it.

"Good luck, Walter. 'Bye, Mulder. Be good." 

And he was. He followed every request, even letting go of Skinner. As long as he could see and/or feel those beloved hands touching him--as long as there was a physical bond between them--he was all right.

Still, Skinner worked quickly. The room wasn't cold, but Mulder had lost so much weight that he shivered easily. Skinner kept the areas he wasn't currently washing covered in towels to keep Mulder warm, and that seemed to do the trick.

When he reached Mulder's groin, he stifled a cry of surprise at the number of grey pubic hairs there were. About a month before the abduction, there'd been exactly one, which a mortified Mulder had pulled out with tweezers. The memory made Skinner smile, until he turned his attention to Mulder's genitals. Running a cloth over the lax penis, he wondered if he and Mulder would ever make love again. Sex had been an important part of their relationship, and there was no denying he would miss it if Mulder never evolved from the innocent, affectionate man-child he'd become. Those alien fuckers had messed with Mulder's brain and, perhaps, this was the result. No matter. He loved the man with all his heart, and he had him back. If Skinner had to live like a monk from now on, so be it.

Once the sponge bath was done, he lovingly rubbed lotion all over Mulder, this time working from back to front. He stopped when he felt Mulder tremble while his shoulders were being massaged.

"Sorry. Cold, babe?"

Mulder, eyes closed, shook his head. And smiled.

"Ah. Feels good, does it?"

The younger man nodded.

That settled it. Skinner silently vowed to include a rubdown in Mulder's daily routine. It felt so good to touch him again, but what felt even better was that Mulder enjoyed it. Skinner wanted to let him fall asleep under his hands like this, but knew that Scully would be back soon, and didn't want to embarrass anyone. Or make any wrong impressions.

He was halfway through clipping Mulder's razor-sharp toenails when Scully returned.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

August 22, 2000  
3:38 p.m.

Bellefleur General wasn't a big hospital, so Dr. Robinson had suggested sending Mulder to Salem or Portland for a CAT scan, as well as other tests.

"Is that what you think we should do?" Skinner asked Scully, who'd finally caught up with the doctor.

"I know you're anxious to get him home, Walter. So am I. It could take weeks to get an appointment for a CAT scan, so I think we should just go back to DC and do it there."

"I was hoping you'd say that." Mulder was leaning on his shoulder, fast asleep. "Did Robinson say when Fox could be released?"

"Well, he wouldn't give me a firm answer--"

"Really? I'm stunned."

She grinned. "--but Mulder's made such a remarkable recovery, thanks to you, that I'm pretty sure today will be his last day here."

"God, that would be wonderful. Look, I hate to burden you, but--"

Scully patted his arm. "I'd be happy to arrange our flight home. Presuming Mulder's discharged in the morning, when do you want to leave?"

Good question. "Um, let's see. I want to take him back to the Highwayman and wash his hair. Then I'll feed him, and he'll probably have a nap afterward. When he wakes up, I want to take him for a shave and haircut. We can leave the next morning, I guess. And I'd like to get the earliest flight out. The airport should be less crowded then, and that'll be easier on him. And we'd better go first class. I'll give you my credit card number."

She looked at Mulder sadly. "Maybe I could give him something before we leave for the airport..."

"Dana!" Skinner was horrified.

"Maybe just some Valium. To calm him down a bit. Do you want him clinging to you like a barnacle from the moment we arrive at the ticket counter?"

"If that's what he needs, then yes. What I don't want is more drugs. Jesus Christ."

"Okay, okay. I was just trying to be helpful. You don't have to bite my head off."

He leaned his head back and exhaled loudly. "Sorry. I just think all this shit they've been pumping into him is only adding to his paranoia. His terror."

Scully bit her lip. She knew there was no use arguing with him.

Stubborn fucking men.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

August 23, 2000  
10:06 a.m.

Scully had thought of everything.

When she'd shown up the next morning to see that Mulder was released, she'd brought a complete change of clothing for him. And that was a damned good thing, because Skinner had thrown out the plastic bag containing the soiled, bloodied garments that Mulder had been wearing when they'd admitted him.

How Scully had had the presence of mind to go to his and Mulder's place before she left DC to gather fresh shirts, slacks, socks, shoes, underwear, belt, and travel shaving kit--well, it mystified Skinner. He'd brought some of his own stuff--a tee-shirt and sweatpants--that Mulder would've drowned in. As it was, Mulder was swimming in his own garb. 

After breakfast, Robinson bestowed a final visit and discharged his difficult patient. Just as Scully'd predicted. And Skinner didn't think the cheerless doctor was the least bit sad to see the three of them go, either.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

They temporarily parted company in the hospital parking lot. Skinner and Mulder had their agenda; Scully had hers. She was anxious to go back to the hotel and make some phone calls to people back home--people she could trust--to arrange further testing for Mulder. The last time he'd been admitted to a public hospital back home, he'd been snatched from his room, illegally operated on, and left for dead. She'd be damned if she'd put any of them through that kind of agony again.

Skinner drove back to the motel, thankful the car he'd rented was an automatic, as Mulder held onto his right hand, in a surprisingly strong grip, all the way there. When a fire engine came screaming up behind them on the edge of town, Mulder nearly jumped into Skinner's lap.

He became even more agitated once they'd arrived at Skinner's room.

"Fox, what is it? Is there something here that frightens you? Something that you don't like?" God, how he wished Mulder could just tell him what was wrong so he could fix it.

Mulder shook his head, looking around wildly.

Then the telepathy that had been forming between them before Mulder disappeared went back online, and Skinner stroked his cheek.

"It's not supposed to look familiar to you. It's the first time you've ever been here. You and I stayed somewhere else the last time. Feel better now?"

Mulder nodded and calmed considerably.

"Good. Now, how'd you like me to wash your hair?"

Another nod. More enthusiastic.

"Good. Great. Okay. The bathroom's over there."

He sat on the closed toilet seat, holding Mulder on his knee while the tub filled, infusing the small room with steam. Despite his own slight discomfort, he'd shut the door to keep the air warm for Mulder. Everything for Mulder. No sacrifice too great.

He quickly undressed his silent companion and helped him into the bath, then knelt beside the drab green porcelain tub, since it was too small to accommodate two adults. Hell, it was barely big enough for one. With his hand on the back of Mulder's head, he slowly lowered him until most of his long, lank body was under the water. Once Mulder's hair was thoroughly wet, Skinner sat him back up and washed it, being careful not to scrub too hard over the latest scarred tissue.

"Tell me--um, let me know if I'm hurting you, okay?"

Head titled back, eyes closed tightly, the fingers of one hand splayed across Skinner's chest, Mulder nodded.

"Damn! Am I hurting you right now?"

Mulder's nostrils flared a little as he shook his head.

"Sorry, babe. Just wanted to make sure."

He managed to rinse the shampoo and conditioner out of Mulder's hair without getting any of it in his eyes--a major accomplishment, he reckoned. Then he soaped and rinsed Mulder down properly, from ears to toes, before lifting him out of the tub and wrapping him in just about every towel the room had to offer. This time, Mulder sat on the toilet seat by himself while Skinner gently combed the squeaky clean hair.

Then he led Mulder to the bed. "Lie down, babe. I'll rub some lotion on you, then we'll have lunch. Okay?"

Yes, that was okay with Mulder. More than okay.

He fell asleep, a dreamy look on his face, in the middle of a foot massage.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Danny's Barbershop. Danny speaking."

"Hi, Danny. It's Walt."

"Hey, Walt! Good to hear from you. I hear congratulations are in order."

"How--how did you know?"

"Lisa told me."

Of course. Danny's wife worked at Bellefleur General. She'd probably gotten an earful about the crazy patient and his human security blanket.

"I forgot she was a nurse there. Sorry."

"Hell, don't be. You had more important things on your mind. She popped in to say 'hello' one night, but you guys were already asleep. How is he?"

"Better." Mulder was dozing, his head in Skinner's lap. "They released him this morning."

"That's great, Walt! I, uh, suppose you'll be heading back to Washington soon."

"Yup. Tomorrow."

"Well, it was sure nice of you to call and say good-bye."

"I was hoping to see you before we go."

The man on the other end of the line paused a beat. "Jeez, man. That's awfully nice of you, but you don't need to do that."

Skinner ran his fingers through Mulder's freshly washed hair, loving the silky feel of it. "Actually, Danny, I do. Fox needs a shave and haircut in the worst way, and I couldn't think of anybody I'd rather have do it."

"Walt. What can I say? It'd be my pleasure. When can you come over?"

"Well, that's a good question. How late are you open tonight? He's having his afternoon nap right now, and I'd like to let him wake up on his own. He needs a lot of rest."

"Look, my friend. You just bring him in whenever you're ready. I'll stay open 'til then."

Skinner swallowed around a small lump in his throat. "I can't ask you to do that."

"You didn't. I offered. It's still early yet, so don't worry about it. I'll see you later, okay?"

"Okay. Thank you, Danny."

"Don't mention it. I'm just real glad you got him back."

"Yeah. Me too."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Who said guardian angels didn't exist? A parking spot opened up right in front of Danny's place when Skinner pulled up later that day.

Main Street was fairly quiet; he suspected most people were at dinner, like Danny should've been. Well, he'd make this visit worth the barber's while--enough to treat his whole family to the best meal in town.

He led his skittish shadow by the hand into the shop, where Danny was waiting for them. He looked up from the magazine he was reading the moment the doorbells jingled.

"Hi, Walt."

"Hi, Danny. Sorry we're so late."

"Don't worry about it. See? Ben's still working."

Indeed, Danny's uncle was busy with a customer. But both men had looked up when they heard Skinner enter, and stared openly at the wild creature by his side.

"Ben!" Danny snapped, perturbed not only by the blatant rudeness, but also by the fact that he couldn't outright scold a paying customer.

"Uh, sorry." Ben forced his attention away, back to the man in his chair. One who looked human.

"Hi," Danny said pleasantly to Mulder, who was now standing almost directly behind Skinner, and had tightened his hold on Skinner's much-abused hand. Peering over a broad shoulder, his eyes darted ferally from one strange face to another.

Skinner tried but couldn't tug Mulder forward, so turned to him instead. "Fox, it's okay. This is Danny. Remember I told you about Danny? He's a friend of mine."

Danny stepped a little closer. "Nice to meet you, Fox."

"He, uh, can't talk at the moment. But he understands everything you say, don't you, babe?" Skinner rubbed Mulder's back. "C'mon, Fox. It's okay. Don't be scared."

But Mulder only flashed another suspicious glance at Ben and his equally curious customer, then grabbed onto Skinner even harder.

"Sorry, Danny." Skinner looked over his shoulder at his friend. "He's a little, uh, timid around people he doesn't know. Just give me a minute with him, okay?"

"Sure. Take your time."

Ben mumbled something to the guy whose hair he was cutting.

"Still talking baseball there, Ben?" Danny was ready to throttle the old man.

"Humph."

Using some fancy footwork, Skinner waltzed Mulder around so that his back was to the others. "Fox." He stroked Mulder's cheek, his head. "I thought you wanted to get rid of all this extra hair."

He nodded slowly, avoiding Skinner's eyes.

"If you want to leave, we will. I'm not going to force you into anything you don't want to do. But I have to tell you, babe--I won't be able to help you. I'm no barber. If I tried to cut your hair, you'd wind up balder then me."

That produced a tiny smile.

"But Danny's really good. He knows what he's doing. I promise he won't hurt you, Fox. Do you honestly think I'd let anybody hurt you? Huh? Do you?"

Mulder looked down at his sneakers and shook his head.

"Of course not. Now, come with me--" He began walking, pushing Mulder backward, over to Danny's chair. "--and sit right here--" He sat Mulder down. "--and let Danny make you look like you again. Okay?"

He didn't look entirely convinced, but Mulder nodded his agreement.

"That's my boy." Skinner addressed Danny quietly. "I don't want to get in your way, but I'm going to have to hold onto him--hold his hand--the whole time. Can you work around that?"

"Don't see why not. So, what do you want me to start with?"

"How 'bout the haircut?"

"Okay. Do I need to shampoo?"

"Nope. Did that this morning."

"Good. That'll make it easier. On him, I mean." Danny handed Skinner a plastic barber's cape. "Maybe you should do the honours."

"Good idea. Fox, I'm going to put this on you to keep hair from getting all over your clothes. You're going to have to let go of my hand for a minute, and then you can have it right back, okay?"

Mulder released his willing prisoner, but placed his palm against the side of Skinner's leg while the cape was fastened around his neck.

Danny was impressed with the way Skinner was handling him. "That's great, Walt. Okay. I think we're ready, then. Uh, Fox? I'm going to spray your hair with water now, because it's easier to cut wet hair. Is that okay?"

Mulder looked to Skinner, then Danny, and nodded. He survived the hair-wetting ritual, and was bracing himself for the rest when Skinner interrupted.

"Danny, see that shorter patch on the left side?"

Comb in hand, the barber examined the area in question. "Yeah. What happened?"

"He had some surgery while he was, uh, missing. It's all healed, but you might want to take it a bit easy there."

"Jesus Christ." They hadn't just grabbed Walt Skinner's boyfriend and held him for three months before tossing him onto the highway like so much litter. They'd also operated on him. On his brain, no less. Danny didn't want to think about how else Mulder might have been tortured. No wonder the poor guy was so fucked-up.

"Is that why he's mute?" he whispered.

Skinner sighed. "I'm not 100 per cent sure, but I don't think so. I hope not."

"Sorry, man. Didn't mean to pry. Did they--did they get the bastards who did it?"

"No." He patted Mulder's cheek. "Probably never will."

"Damned shame."

"Yeah."

"Okay. Now, about that haircut..."

Over the years, hundreds of small boys had sat in Danny Hargrove's barber chair. And that's what Fox Mulder reminded him of: a frightened child. He was particularly upset when he first saw the scissors, but Skinner was able to keep him from bolting. It saddened Danny that Walt had never had children. He would've made a great father. Probably not what he'd want to hear right now, though.

Ben's customer left while Danny worked on Mulder, and he nearly applauded. "Why don't you go home, Ben? I doubt anyone else will come in tonight."

"Gotta clean up." Ben grabbed a broom and began to sweep.

"I'll do it."

"I can clean up my own messes, boy."

"Stubborn old bastard," Danny muttered to Skinner.

"What's that, Daniel?"

"Nothing, Ben. Nothing. Just talking to Walt and Fox here."

"Uh-huh."

Ben puttered as Danny cut and Skinner tried to keep from getting underfoot. Mulder's trembling subsided as his hair got shorter, but his eyes remained glued to Skinner's reflection in the mirror before him.

"So? What do you think?" Danny asked when the first task was completed.

Skinner noticed some grey at Mulder's temples, plus a sprinkling of silver throughout that hadn't been there before. It disheartened him a little, but he didn't want to let on. "Looks great, doesn't it, Fox?"

Mulder shook his head sorrowfully, then lowered it until his whiskered chin came to rest on his chest.

Skinner came around the chair and stood in front of it. "Hey, buddy! We're not done yet, you know. You'll like what you see when the beard comes off. Trust me."

Mulder perked up after some more encouragement from Skinner, and Danny thought the shave would be a breeze. So, when he started to bring the scissors near Mulder's face, he wasn't prepared for the reaction he got. Mulder was out of the chair and in Skinner's arms in seconds flat, tears pouring out of eyes suddenly the size of dinner plates, his mouth open in a prolonged, silent scream. Not even during his time in the service had Danny seen a man as terrified as Fox Mulder.

"Fox. Fox! Shhhh, baby! It's okay. It's okay. Danny wasn't going to hurt you. I swear, babe. C'mon. Calm down. Calm down."

"God, Walt. I'm sorry. He was doing so well. I didn't think anything like this would happen."

Skinner pulled a wad of tissues from his front pocket and wiped at Mulder's face. "Neither did I. I hate to think what the sight of your straight razor would do to him."

"Maybe you should wait a while. Until he's feeling better." Danny wasn't Catholic, and didn't know how they chose saints, but if he had any say in the matter, Walter Skinner would get his vote.

"Fox? Listen to me. I want to ask you something. Okay?"

Snuffling, Mulder lifted his head from Skinner's soggy shoulder and bit his lower lip.

"Okay. That's better. Do you want to go now? Shave the beard off when we get back home?"

At first they all thought that Mulder was going to nod in favour of Skinner's suggestion. But then he caught his reflection, shook his head, and started to cry again.

Danny could see that Skinner was beyond being frustrated. "I'd like to try something," he offered.

"I don't know, Danny. He's pretty wound up."

"Yeah, but this might work. We can always try it and, if he's still upset, we'll stop."

Skinner shrugged, drying Mulder's face for the second time that evening. "Okay. I just feel terrible about putting you out like this."

"You're not. Marines do for each other, you know?"

"I know. Thanks."

The first thing Danny did was shut all the blinds, then flipped on the neon "closed" sign. Then he turned to his uncle. "Ben. Go home."

"But I'm not finished--"

"Ben. I. Said. Go. Home."

The senior Hargrove gave the junior a deathly stare, threw down the towel he'd been cleaning with, and stormed out of the shop still wearing his smock. Danny locked the door behind him.

"Okay. That's that. Now, Walt--you get in the chair and have Fox there sit on your lap, facing the mirror. Good. Just like that. Perfect."

Mulder had slumped down so that Skinner's arms were wrapped around his chest, under his armpits, and Skinner's mouth was close to his right ear.

"Good," Danny continued. "Fox, you close your eyes--that's it--and Walt, you keep talking to him, keep him nice and relaxed, and this'll all be over before you know it."

Mulder recoiled at the first few snips of the scissors, broke one of the rules and watched in total fascination as Danny applied shaving cream, then nearly lost it again (as predicted) when Danny picked up the straight razor.

But Skinner talked him back down from the ledge, and he emerged from the shave with nary a nick.

And the final result was downright amazing.

Now Danny could see the resemblance between the man in the mirror and the man in the photo that Skinner had shown him.

Mulder stared at himself with wonder, caressing his chin, cheeks and upper lip, obviously delighted with the way they felt.

Skinner watched the man he loved react for a few moments, then pushed his face into Mulder's upper back and cried a little.

"Looks pretty good, Walt," Danny said quietly. "Fatten him up some, and he'll be as good as new."

Skinner dried his eyes and gave Mulder an affectionate squeeze. "You bet. Thanks, Danny. For everything."

"Just glad I could help."

Despite Skinner's original intentions, he could not persuade his friend to take any money for his services.

"On the house," Danny told him.

"At least take this, then." Skinner handed him a piece of paper. "It's our address and phone number in Crystal City, Virginia. If there's ever anything I can do for you or your family, or if you ever come out to DC, you just get in touch with us. Okay? Even without the Bureau, I still have some connections. I won't forget what you did for me. For us."

Danny reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a business card. "You keep in touch too. And I want this guy to call me when he starts talking again."

"You got it."

"Would you like to come to the house for dinner?" Danny asked. "Lisa made this huge pot of spaghetti sauce--"

Skinner placed his free hand atop his friend's shoulder. "I'd love to, Danny, but I don't think Fox would be up to it."

"Had enough excitement for one day, huh?"

"Something like that." He drew Mulder closer. "Besides, I have a feeling that he's not going to last more than two minutes after I feed him. But the next time we're in town--"

"I'm going to hold you to that, Walt."

He didn't know why but, somehow, Walter Skinner knew that he and Daniel J. Hargrove, Jr. would cross paths again some day.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Highwayman Motel  
7:03 p.m.

Ed Spencer was reading the sports section of the previous day's paper when the big, bald guy in Unit 13 strolled into the motel office.

Holding hands with another man.

Holy Mary, Mother of God.

Spencer'd always thought John Melvin was kind of weird, staying out all night and sleeping all day the way he did.

But this? He never would've guessed. The guy sure didn't look queer. But the man he'd come in with did. Like he had AIDS or something.

"What can I do for you tonight, Mr. Melvin?"

The skinny, sickly one looked around the office, then frowned.

"I'll be checking out in the morning," said Melvin.

"Oh? Kinda short notice, isn't it?"

Melvin put his arm on the counter and leaned forward, muscles tensing under his snug tee-shirt. "Look, Mr. Spencer," he growled. "I've been here for three months, and I'm paid up until the end of the month. I don't see what the problem is."

The motel manager shrank back, feeling smaller than usual. "Uh, there's no problem. No problem at all."

"You won't mind, then, if my friend here stays the night."

"No. No. That's fine."

"Good-night, then. C'mon, babe."

It didn't even occur to Ed Spencer that the guy in the ill-fitting clothes hadn't uttered a word the whole time. He was too busy try to figure out if the bleach his wife used would be strong enough to kill whatever germs the two faggots were likely to leave on his sheets and towels. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Less than 30 minutes after she'd gotten the call at her hotel, Scully arrived at the Highwayman with take-out food. She'd changed into black cotton slacks and a white sleeveless blouse, and her creamy skin was slightly flushed from the heat of the sultry night.

"Goodness!" She froze in the doorway, staring at her partner who, of course, had come with Skinner to let her in. "Mulder! You look great! That barber friend of yours did a really nice job, Walter."

"He sure did." Skinner placed a soft kiss against Mulder's temple. "You know, you'll be able to see him a lot better if you actually come into the room."

"Hmmm? Oh, right."

She walked straight to the kitchen table and set down the bags she'd brought. Standing where the light was brighter, she was startled to see that Mulder's dark hair was flecked with grey. She thought it made him look even more attractive but, strangely, not older--perhaps because he was squirming like a small boy under her scrutiny, his life-size teddy bear firmly in hand.

Said teddy bear cocked his head at the two sacks. "Smells wonderful, Dana."

She'd chosen lasagna, a small loaf of crusty bread, and tossed salad for herself and Skinner, and pureed broccoli soup for Mulder. Skinner offered her the last beer in the fridge, then grabbed a large bottle of water and a strawberry-flavoured protein shake.

"What did he eat for lunch?" Scully asked, arranging napkins and plastic cutlery on the table.

"Cream of tomato soup. And a shake, of course. Chocolate. When can I start him on solid food?" Skinner began removing the lids from the foil and styrofoam containers. "He's never going to put on any weight or get his strength back while he's on a liquid diet."

She sat down, indicating the two men do likewise. "I know, Walter, but he probably hasn't eaten anything solid since, well, since the last meal he had with you back in May. But he's been doing really well since he's been off the IV, so I think we--that is, *you* can start giving him soft foods in a couple of days."

"Good." He glanced at Mulder, whose chair was to the left of his and so close that they were touching. "How does that sound, Fox?"

Mulder shrugged. He had both hands wrapped around Skinner's left bicep while the older man grabbed Mulder's nutritional supplements off the nearby counter.

"You can have scrambled eggs, and applesauce, and yogurt," supplied Scully.

"And ice cream and pudding," Skinner added.

That produced a smile.

Mulder really didn't have much of an appetite, but ate his dinner and took his vitamins just the same. For Skinner, Scully suspected. Always for Skinner. Throughout the meal, the renegade AD ate with his left arm around Mulder's shoulder, holding Mulder's left hand in his. It was awkward, but Mulder needed his constant touch. Anything for Mulder.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Not unexpectedly, Mulder began to fade once he'd finished eating. Scully was tired herself, and took his first yawn as her cue to get ready to leave. She tidied up the kitchen while Skinner, his Siamese twin in tow, quickly emptied drawers and threw their meagre contents into his suitcase. When the chores were done, she gave the two men a brief hug and let herself out. 

Mulder was almost asleep on his feet, but Skinner steered him into the bathroom and helped him brush his teeth.

The unit was warm, but not uncomfortably so; a geriatric ceiling fan directly above the double bed provided some relief from the humidity that nightfall had failed to dispel. Still, Mulder's skin was cool--cooler than Skinner's, anyway--so some form of pyjamas was required. In the end, Skinner dressed Mulder in a tee-shirt and sweatpants, and chose just a pair of boxers for himself. He was used to sleeping naked, unless it was exceptionally cold, but felt that would be wrong somehow, now that Mulder was...different.

He was just about to turn off the bedside lamp when Mulder tugged his hand. "Yes, babe?" he asked automatically, as if expecting an answer.

And Mulder gave him one. He tapped himself in the middle of the chest, smiling at Skinner sleepily.

Oh, God.

The gesture was a secret signal they'd come up with after exchanging commitment rings. Because they couldn't wear them on the job without raising too many questions--not to mention eyebrows--they'd kept them on chains around their necks, safely concealed under layers of clothing. And when one felt the need to express his feelings for the other, all he had to do was touch his tie and the ring beneath it, next to his heart.

Salt immediately stung Skinner's eyes. "I love you too, Fox. I love you so much." He bent down, framed Mulder's head with his hands, and pressed his lips to Mulder's forehead until he'd regained control of his emotions. He then shut the light and gathered Mulder into his arms, pulling the threadbare sheet up over them.

"Good night, babe."

Mulder nodded slowly, then blew Skinner away for the second time that night by bussing the bare shoulder he was snuggled against.

It was the first time he'd kissed Skinner since his return. Maybe it was nothing more than a reflex action. Then again...

"It's gonna be all right," he whispered, his words ruffling Mulder's sweet-scented hair.

Both men slept through until morning, not a remembered nightmare between them.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In Walter Skinner's book, there were two types of people: those who said, "I told you so," and those who didn't. And those who *did* fell into two categories: either they actually said the words or--what was even more annoying--merely implied them.

Now he knew for sure which kind of person Dana Scully was.

She hadn't made a peep, but the looks she kept sending his way positively screamed, "I told you that you should've let me give Mulder something." They had a cross-country flight ahead of them, and already Mulder was a fucking wreck. Even though they were travelling at off-peak hours--even though Skinner was right there with him, touching him, every step of the way--there were enough strange beings and stranger things to thoroughly unravel him.

Skinner wasn't the picture of perfect mental health himself. Returning the rental car, checking in at the ticket counter, and going through security with 140 pounds of twitching, nervous energy literally hanging off him had been more than taxing. Christ, he didn't even have the luxury of an FBI shield to flash so he could bluff or bully his way through to the plane. If it hadn't been for Scully and the power of her credentials as both a federal agent and a doctor, he and Mulder might not have made it out of Oregon that morning.

The worst part of it was that Mulder evidently realized how much trouble his anxiety and paranoia were causing. Once they took their seats in first class--Mulder at the window, Scully across the aisle from them, with the row to herself--he pressed his face into Skinner's upper arm and began to weep.

Giving up on his seatbelt, Skinner turned to the miserable man and kissed each wet eyelid, oblivious to the human traffic around them. "Please don't cry, Fox. You did great. Really great. And it'll be a lot easier when we land at Dulles."

Mulder shook his head and sniffed.

"Yes, yes. It will be. I promise." He ran his thumbs across Mulder's cheeks, then drew him in for an all-out hug. "I'm sorry if I upset you back there," he whispered into Mulder's ear. "I was mad at those people who were giving us a hard time. Not you. I love you. You know that, right?"

Mulder nodded, his soft hair tickling Skinner' face.

"That's my boy." He dug a tissue out of his pocket and dabbed at Mulder's eyes, pleased when Mulder took the tissue to blow his nose himself.

His new-found independence vanished a few minutes later, however, when it was time to take off. He let his seatbelt be fastened for him, then nearly broke Skinner's hand as the plane gathered speed down the runway and climbed into the air. Eyes squeezed tight and quivering like Jell-O, he successfully fought the urge to crawl on top of Skinner and bawl, and was rewarded with another long hug once they'd reached cruising altitude.

Skinner was in the middle of covering the exhausted man with a blanket when a young flight attendant approached with the refreshment trolley.

"Sir," she asked kindly, "would you gentlemen like something to drink?"

God, how he wanted a shot of something strong. Very strong. But drinking while flying played havoc with his kidneys, and leaving Mulder's side to use the bathroom--even for a few minutes--was not an option. No scotch on earth was worth risking a panic attack at 30,000 feet.

"Ginger ale for me, and orange juice for my friend. Please." It wasn't just *his* bladder he was worried about. Because Mulder had been so dehydrated when they'd found him, Scully had recommended that he drink at least eight ounces of liquids each hour they were in the air. Mulder had relieved himself before leaving the motel, and Skinner prayed he wouldn't have to go again until they got home. The thought of trying to squeeze the two of them into a tiny airplane restroom without breaking something or getting arrested was, well, unthinkable.

After finishing his juice, Mulder curled up and fell fast asleep against Skinner's shoulder. The older man felt his stomach begin to settle--partly because of the ginger ale, partly because he'd made it this far without cracking. A tap on his arm drew his attention from one travelling companion to the other.

"Hey, Walter. How're you doing?" Scully, cradling a cup of coffee between her small pale hands, now looked anything but smug.

"Fine." It was mostly the truth.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Well, I think you were amazing with him. So patient. I don't know how you do it."

"I don't have much choice, do I? He didn't ask for any of this to happen." He set his soft drink down. "He'd do the same for me. No, he'd do better. He wouldn't lose his temper and get all pissed off like I do."

"Don't be too sure, Walter. When you guys started seeing each other, I have to admit I said some, well, shall we say, unflattering things about you." She shrugged, the apology understood but unspoken. "Mulder was ready to end our friendship--not just our partnership, but our *friendship*--because of it. Believe me, when it comes to you, he doesn't put up with any crap. From anyone."

"I--I never meant to come between the two of you."

Scully rolled her eyes. "That wasn't my point. Stop trying to outdo me in the guilt department, okay?"

"Sorry."

"Walter. Cut it out."

He grinned. "Yes, ma'am."

"That's better."

The flight attendant came by with headsets for the in-flight movie, which they both declined. Scully had some reports she wanted to finish, and the only thing Skinner wanted to watch was Mulder.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When Scully detected the first signs of lunch being prepared, she grabbed her Bureau ID and took the short stroll to the galley, talking the crew into heating up the can of ready-to-serve soup she'd brought aboard for Mulder. She also got them to chill his canned protein drink.

Skinner had the unenviable task of waking Mulder from his nap. He'd been sleeping so peacefully, it was almost a cruel thing to do. Although Skinner tenderly stroked him, Mulder was still disoriented when his eyes finally opened; the cabin was in semi-darkness, as the movie was still playing. But a string of kind words and loving touches calmed him, and the rest of the flight passed without incident. He even dozed through a small patch of turbulence--something for which Skinner was profoundly grateful. Only the landing provided some stressful moments but, even then, Mulder held up much better than expected.

As the plane safely touched down, Skinner breathed a huge sigh of relief. Throughout the flight, he'd been unable to banish unbidden thoughts of Max Fenig's horrible demise, and they scared him half to death. He'd had visions of the cabin being filled with a blinding bright light, then the hull breached and Mulder abducted right before his eyes this time. He shuddered and pulled his reason for living a little closer to his side.

Mulder had been to Dulles hundreds of times, but he acted as though none of it was familiar to him. Either that, or he just wasn't interested in his surroundings. He walked through the terminal with his eyes lowered, left arm wrapped around Skinner's waist, Skinner's right arm around his shoulders. Scully stuck close to Mulder's other side. No one gave the unusual trio a second look, but they wouldn't have cared anyway. Their chief concerns were to claim their luggage and get the hell out of there.

Scully had left her car at the airport, and generously offered to drive her friends home. Of course, Mulder had to sit next to Skinner, so the two men sat in the back seat. If Scully minded playing chauffeur, she didn't let on.

Again, Mulder paid no attention to the scenery that flew past his window as Scully steered them toward Crystal City. He was content to be cuddled and caressed, weary from the long flight. Hell, they were all worn out. It was even muggier here than it was back in Oregon, but Scully couldn't crank the air conditioner for Mulder's sake. No matter how hot and humid it was, he was always chilly.

Skinner, on the other hand, was roasting. They'd hit the tail end of the evening rush hour, and the slow-moving car was like an oven. He would've been a lot cooler if Mulder wasn't draped all over him, but that was okay. Mulder was comfortable. Mulder was content. And that's what counted. Skinner thought about how good a shower would feel, or a soak in a cool tub. Then he remembered that Mulder would have to be there with him, and he began to get even hotter.

Damn.

He tried to think of less pleasant things. Like going back to the Hoover to face the Director, Kersh and their cronies. God, it felt so strange to be home. Gazing out at the landscape rushing by--so different from what he'd become accustomed to over the last three months--he had no fucking idea what his future would hold.

But there was one thing of which he was certain, and that was Mulder. He wouldn't let anyone take Mulder away from him again. Not physicians or psychiatrists or the government or extraterrestrials. No one.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Walter Skinner and Fox Mulder's Apartment  
Crystal City, VA  
August 24, 2000  
6:07 p.m. 

"Uh, Walter? You coming up sometime today?"

Oh, man. They'd already pulled into the visitors' lot of the condo. "Yeah. Sorry. Must've been daydreaming."

Unlike Mulder, who was sawing genuine logs.

"C'mon, Fox." Skinner kissed the top of Mulder's head, gently shook his shoulders. "Wake up. We're home."

Scully popped the trunk, got out of the car and stretched. "Hey! Looks like you've got company." She'd spotted the Lone Gunmen's vehicle--the eyesore on wheels they called a van.

Skinner pulled Mulder from the back seat and onto the pavement. "What are they doing here?"

"I asked them to feed the fish and pick up the mail while I was gone. I didn't think you'd mind."

"No. Of course not." At first he hadn't liked the idea of those three whackos having access to his home, even if they *had* installed the best private security system he'd ever seen. But they'd been wonderful friends to Mulder, and he'd grown fonder of them than he'd ever admit publicly.

"Also," Scully continued, helping Skinner with the luggage, "I told them we were coming home today. They're probably dying to see Mulder."

"I just hope he remembers them."

She looked up at him. "You really think he might not?" Without waiting for an answer, she turned to Mulder. "Mulder? Do you remember Frohike and Byers and Langly?"

He squinted in concentration, then shrugged and shook his head. He was wide awake now. And agitated.

Skinner herded the little group into the building, through the lobby to the bank of elevators. "Maybe you'll remember when you see them. Don't worry, babe. You're getting better every day."

But Mulder slumped against him all the way up to the 17th floor, and was shaking slightly by the time they reached their unit.

"It's okay. It's okay. They're friends. Good friends. They won't hurt you. I promise. Okay?"

Skinner let Scully open the door, since his hands were full of bags and Mulder. She went in first. "Hi, guys."

The Gunmen were sprawled out in the living room, watching something that was undoubtedly weird. But Scully's greeting had them on their feet in seconds, and Byers clicked the TV off with the remote, filling the large room with silence.

Mulder. He was back. A thinner, greyer version of his old self. But he was back.

Frohike was the first to find his voice. "Hey, Mulder." His first instinct had been to rush over and hug the scrawny man. But the way he was clutching Skinner told Frohike to approach with caution. "It's me. Mel. Welcome home, buddy." He stuck out his hand, and waited.

Skinner could practically feel Mulder's blood thrumming beneath his fingers. "Fox? Do you remember Melvin Frohike? It's okay if you don't. You will. You will."

Mulder tilted his head sideways, then thrust it forward, sizing the little man up. Then, to Frohike's delight, Mulder gave him a ghost of a smile and actually let go of Skinner to take the proffered hand.

He was similarly shy while being reacquainted with Byers and Langly. And his home. Holding onto Skinner like a cherished doll, he wandered around, from room to room, cautiously running his free hand over pieces of furniture, books, the things he'd brought into the condo, the things he and Skinner had accumulated together. He was particularly fascinated with the aquarium. When the got to the first-floor bathroom, he dragged Skinner in with him and began to open the fly of his chinos.

Skinner quickly flipped on the light and shut the door with his foot. Jeez. Neither one of them had gone to the bathroom for hours now. And, suddenly, he had to go in the worst way. He stood beside Mulder at the toilet bowl and they peed simultaneously, Mulder outlasting him by several long seconds.

"Fox," Skinner said as they washed up, "I was thinking of asking everybody to stay for dinner." It was the polite thing to do. "Order pizza or something. But this is your home too, and if you want them to go--"

Mulder tugged on Skinner's wrist and shook his head.

"Are you sure?"

He nodded.

"Okay, but we'll make it a short evening. I think a long rest in our own bed will do us both a world of good."

Yeah. If bathing with Mulder didn't kill him first.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Before Skinner had a chance to ask his guests whether they preferred pizza or Chinese, Scully did him and Mulder a big favour.

"Okay, boys," she announced. "Time to get going. It's been a long day."

What a marvellous woman. Skinner seriously considered sending her flowers.

"Would you like to have dinner with us, Agent Scully?" Frohike asked optimistically. "I know this great little cyber cafe--"

"Sorry, my friend." She patted him on the back. "I'm more tired than hungry. But I'll take a raincheck."

Skinner and, therefore, Mulder walked the group to the door. "Thanks for looking after the place. We'll have you over in a few days, when Fox is feeling better, to show our appreciation."

"We were happy to do it." Byers shook Skinner's hand. "We're just glad he's home."

"I'll call you tomorrow," Scully told Skinner, standing on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. "Let you know about those tests."

"Great. Thanks."

"Good-night, partner." She kissed and hugged Mulder, who hugged her back as much as he could without liberating Skinner.

"Dudes." Langly frowned. "Isn't this carrying the togetherness thing a bit far?"

"Shut up, you loser," Frohike snapped. "He was grabbed when they were just a few steps away from each other, so figure it out." He looked up at Skinner. "He must be terrified of being taken from you again. Don't--just don't let go, okay?"

Not for the first time, Skinner realized there was a lot more to Frohike than most people gave him credit for. "I won't. Believe me." 

He was pretty sure that Frohike did.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Neither man was exactly ravenous, but Skinner figured they'd be ready to eat something by the time the Chinese take-out arrived. He ordered egg drop soup for Mulder, confident that his digestive system could handle it.

While they waited for their dinner to be delivered, they unpacked and put away their luggage, throwing the crumpled contents into the small laundry nook off the kitchen. Skinner would wash a load later. Maybe tomorrow. The first order of business was getting Mulder off his feet and onto the sofa to watch some television.

Skinner had planned to eat in front of the TV too, so was surprised when Mulder led him into the dining room. They'd shared many wonderful meals at that table. Romantic times that Skinner didn't want to think about just now.

He also felt ill at ease tucking into meat, rice and vegetables while Mulder consumed yet another monotonous meal consisting of soup, protein shake and vitamins. He eyed Skinner's food a couple of times, the longing evident.

Skinner put down his fork and cupped Mulder's cheek. "Sorry, babe. I know it must be hard on you, eating all this boring shit while I sit here and scarf down the good stuff. But it won't be long before you're Moo Goo Gai Panning with the best of them."

Because his stomach had been full of butterflies for most of the day, the dishes Skinner'd chosen for himself weren't very spicy. Certainly nothing Szechwan. And that was fortunate. Or maybe not. There was a spot of lemon chicken sauce on the tip of the thumb that was stroking Mulder's chin, and his heart nearly stopped when Mulder licked that thumb, then sucked it into his mouth. Swallowing, he gazed into Mulder's eyes, and saw that they were filled with innocent mischief. It was clear that he had no idea what effect the sensation of his tongue was having on Skinner's libido.

The older man was no longer hungry. For food.

Jesus.

He slid his thumb out of the warm, inviting mouth and patted Mulder's head clumsily. "Okay, Fox," he said in what he hoped was a casual tone of voice. "I'm full. Help me clear the table and we'll watch a movie or something. All right?"

Mulder shook his head, then yawned, showing off his tonsil scars.

"No TV? Just sleep?"

He nodded. Playtime was over.

Good.

As they headed upstairs, he scrapped his original plan to take a bath or shower before bed. Getting naked with Mulder while on the brink of arousal would likely be the end of him. The trick was to get Mulder to sleep as fast as possible, then sneak downstairs and shower later. He felt like a sack of rotting vegetables, and couldn't understand why his ripeness didn't seem to bother Mulder. He decided on a quick wash-up before they brushed their teeth.

Like the previous night, he helped Mulder into makeshift PJs of sweatpants and a tee-shirt. Despite the heat, Skinner slipped on an old pair of pyjama bottoms. When Mulder was asleep, he was going to take a cold shower. A long, icy one.

But, until then, he had to lie naked from the waist up in their bed--the bed they'd made love in too many times to count--and hold Mulder in his arms until he drifted off. Well, so far, so good. Thinking about castrations and six-day-old corpses and that stupid alien autopsy video of Mulder's was keeping his excitement at bay.

Believing he was home free, he bent over Mulder to plant a safe, platonic, good-night kiss on his forehead. But just as he pressed his mouth to the cool flesh, Mulder's lips touched his Adam's apple. He froze for a second, then drew back. There was enough light in the room to see that trusting, child-like face peering up at him, to know that it was just a friendly kiss. A sign of pure affection. A little reciprocation. Nothing more. Mulder was no longer the sexual, sensual being he once was. He was wounded. He was less than himself. He was a sweet, chaste boy.

But he was still beautiful. Desirable. Especially that full, edible mouth. Pushing reason aside, Skinner took Mulder's head between his hands and brought their lips together in a whisper of a kiss. When he broke it, Mulder was still calm, regarding him serenely. He wanted to kiss Mulder again, this time with mouths open. A wet, sloppy, nasty kiss, using tongue and teeth. He knew Mulder would let him. Mulder would deny him nothing. He could strip Mulder bare and fuck him into February and Mulder wouldn't put up a fight.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

That Skinner would even entertain such thoughts nearly made him sick. He took several deep breaths and pinched his own thigh--hard--before releasing his hold on Mulder and lying down beside him. "G'night, Fox," he managed to choke out. "Go to sleep."

Mulder frowned slightly, then shrugged and latched onto Skinner, who prayed that Mulder was too tired, or too naive, to notice his erection.

When he was satisfied that Mulder had fallen into a deep sleep, Skinner slunk out of bed and fled downstairs. His hard-on had died while lying next to Mulder, despising himself, but it came back to life once he stepped under the electric spray of the shower. He hadn't jerked off in a long while. Maybe that was his problem.

Instead of feeling better, though, he felt worse after he came. Using liberal amounts of liquid soap, he washed away the gooey mess, but still felt unclean. And fatigued beyond measure. He dried himself sluggishly, dressed, and headed back upstairs. At least he would sleep now.

But, just as he entered the bedroom, he walked into a moving wall that almost knocked him off his feet.

"Jesus, Fox! Are you all right?" They'd slammed into each other pretty hard.

In answer, Mulder threw his arms around Skinner's neck and pressed into him, his body quaking with fear and soundless sobs.

A fresh wave of guilt washed over Skinner. How long had he been gone? Too long, obviously. Something had wakened Mulder--perhaps a bad dream--and he'd panicked when he found himself alone in a room he hadn't slept in in months.

Damn.

"Shhhhh. Shhhhh." He led the distraught man back to bed. "I'm so sorry, baby. I couldn't sleep, so I took a shower." Great. He wasn't just a pervert. He was also a liar. "It's okay. I'm here now. I'm back. Shhhhh."

Mulder soon stopped whimpering and went back to sleep, his left leg thrown across his bedmate's shins, effectively preventing further escape attempts. Amazingly, Skinner nodded off a short time later.

But he still felt like shit when the phone woke him just before noon.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Sorry," Scully said. "I thought you'd be up by now."

"Yeah. Me too."

"How's Mulder?"

"He's squirming like he needs to use the bathroom. Badly. Can I call you back in a few minutes?"

"Sure. Take your time."

"Where are you?"

"At home."

"Okay. 'Bye, Dana."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Scully joined them for dinner, arriving with two huge grocery bags. She, for one, was growing tired of take-out and fast food. She didn't even mind doing the cooking.

The rest of the evening was spent discussing Mulder's schedule for the next few days. One of Scully's best friends from college ran a private clinic that Mulder had visited once before, and that's where he'd be going tomorrow for some of the simpler tests that Scully wanted to have run, including an ultrasound. Between the two doctors, they'd called in enough favours to arrange for Mulder to have a CAT scan and an MRI within a couple of weeks.

"I've also booked an appointment with a nutritionist and a physiotherapist for early next week," Scully told Skinner as Mulder lounged in his arms. "But it looks like you'll be Mulder's primary caregiver. Of course, I'll do whatever I can to help out."

"Thanks, Dana. I really appreciate everything you're doing."

She gave him a rare smile, then turned it on Mulder. "Nothing's too good for my partner."

Mulder grinned back at her. She'd let him have ice cream for dessert, and he was about as happy and relaxed as she'd seen him since his return.

Skinner thought so, too. And he decided to take advantage of it.

"Hold on, Fox." He picked Mulder up and deposited him on the other couch, beside Scully. "Okay, you can let go now."

Mulder just looked puzzled and remained attached to Skinner.

"Babe, I need you to stay here with Dana and keep her company. I've got to run upstairs, but I'll be right back. Okay?"

Apparently, it wasn't.

Skinner crouched down in front of Mulder. "Fox, listen to me. I have to go to the bathroom, and I'd like a little privacy." His face was turning pink. He could feel it. "It'll only take a few minutes. I swear."

"Yeah. Give the poor guy a break, Mulder." Scully put her hand on Mulder's arm, and was stung when he pulled away. "Mulder! It's me! You'll be fine without Walter for a little while. I won't let anything happen to you."

But he just moved closer to Skinner, increasing his hold on the other man. 

"Fox." Skinner was growing more uncomfortable by the minute. "Please, baby. Let go. Just for a few minutes."

Fingers still digging into Skinner's biceps, Mulder began to stand up.

"No! You're not coming with me. I want to go upstairs by myself, and I want you to sit here with Dana until I come back."

Breathing harder now, eyes filling, Mulder shook his head.

"Damnit, Fox!"

Mulder flinched, but didn't let go.

His anger and frustration mounting, Skinner crossed his hands over his chest and began to pry Mulder's fingers open, trying not to hurt him in the process. But Mulder just held on tighter.

That did it.

With a roar, Skinner stood, hauling Mulder up and shaking him like a rag doll.

"Walter!" Scully jumped to her feet.

But Skinner ignored her. "For Christ's sake!" he bellowed at Mulder. "What the matter with you? You're suffocating me 24 hours a day! Is it too much to ask to let me take a dump in peace? You've been stuck to me like a fucking leech ever since they found you, and I just can't take it anymore!"

Eyes impossibly big, Mulder released Skinner and stumbled backward, hugging himself and rubbing his upper arms. His chin began to quiver, and tears spilled down his too-pale face as he stood, swaying slightly, staring straight ahead in mute disbelief.

"Oh, God." Skinner clamped both hands over his mouth, the horror of his words and actions hitting him like a tidal wave. "What have I done?" he mumbled through his fingers in a small, watery voice. "O, God. What have I done? I didn't mean--Fox! I'm sorry! I--I--oh, my God. Oh, fuck. Jesus Christ. Please, please..." He reached out to Mulder, expecting nothing less than rejection. God knew he deserved it.

But Mulder took the trembling hand, enfolded it in both of his own, kissed it, then let go. He stepped even away from Skinner, still facing him, crying harder than ever.

"No. No." He didn't want to be set free. He'd changed his mind. He stuck his hand out again. "This is yours. Take it. *I'm* yours. All of me."

Except for the violent rise and fall of his chest and shoulders, Mulder remained motionless.

"Fox. Please." His face folded in upon itself. "I'm sorry. So, so sorry. I didn't mean any of it. I love you!"

Mulder tapped himself in the middle of his chest.

"Then why--why won't you take my hand?"

"He's waiting for you to make the first move, you idiot!" Scully had never felt so out-of-place in her life, but had stayed in case they needed her. Which they did. "Walter! Are you listening? Go to him!"

He prayed she was right. Fighting off his fear, he lurched forward and held out his arms. "May--may I?"

Mulder nodded, fists clutched at his sides. But the moment Skinner touched him, he melted into the embrace, running his hands up and down the broad, heaving back.

It was too much for Scully. She fled to the kitchen, poured a large glass of water, drank it down in four gulps, then refilled it. When she re-entered the living room, the two men were sitting on the couch, holding hands.

"Fox," Skinner said, half crying, half chuckling, "I know my timing sucks, but I *do* need to go to the bathroom. Badly. Now. You can come with me if you really want to."

Mulder's face turned crimson and he shook his head, a bashful grin twisting one corner of his mouth. Despite the pain it cost him, he withdrew his hands from Skinner's and folded them primly in his lap. Skinner planted a quick kiss on the top of his head.

"Thank you, sweetheart." He was on his feet, loping backward toward the stairs. "I'll be right back. Right back. I promise."

Scully sat down beside Mulder, who watched Skinner take the steps two at a time and dash down the hall to the bathroom. The sound of the door closing rang through the still condo like a shot.

"Here," she said, handing Mulder the glass of water.

He drank, although he was shaking so violently that she feared he might chip a tooth.

"You okay?" she asked when he'd finished.

He nodded absently, staring at the second floor landing, and didn't object when she began to rub his back. A moment later, he picked up her other hand and held it firmly. She knew how much he wanted to climb those stairs. What an enormous effort it was to stay put. He reminded her of a sprinter waiting for the starter's pistol to go off.

Both of them sat a little straighter when they heard the toilet flush, followed by the sound of running water. Then Skinner emerged from the bathroom, without his glasses, wiping his hands on the hem of his polo shirt. He headed straight for Mulder.

Scully wisely got out of the way. Her presence was no longer necessary.

When he got to the couch, Skinner fell to his knees at Mulder's feet, snaked his arms around Mulder's waist, pressed his face against Mulder's thigh, and completely fell apart in Mulder's arms.

He was long overdue.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

He grabbed the phone on the first ring.

"Skinner."

"Hi. It's me."

The sound of Scully's voice brought the shame bubbling back up to the surface. "Hi."

"Can you talk?"

"Just a sec." He pointed the remote at the TV on Mulder's dresser and muted the volume. "I was just watching the news. Fox's asleep already."

"How is he?"

Skinner looked down at the man plastered to his torso and grimaced. There were fresh fingermarks--*his* fingermarks--just above Mulder's elbows, where his tee-shirt had ridden up. Those marks would graduate to ugly bruises by tomorrow. Scully would see them during Mulder's examination at her friend's clinic and see what kind of man Walter Skinner truly was: no better than the brutish cops whose heads he'd bitten off in Oregon.

"Walter? You still there?"

"Yeah. Sorry. He's fine. In--" He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off another crying jag. "In spite of me."

"I guess I don't have to ask how *you're* doing."

"No."

"If it's any consolation," she told him, "I would've reacted the same way. Maybe sooner."

"Come off it, Agent Scully." He'd rather be reprimanded than patronized. "You know damned well you would've done no such thing."

"Do I? I can almost guarantee you that having my own personal limpet would drive me crazy."

He leaned against the headboard and closed his eyes. "Maybe. But you wouldn't have--God almighty! I can't believe I treated him like that. He was just frightened, and all I did was make it worse."

"Not necessarily. He can't cling to you forever, and he knows that now."

"Yeah, but that wasn't the way to show him."

"Maybe it was the only way." Scully sighed into the phone. "Look, Walter. You've got to move past this. Over the next few days, he's going to need to draw from your strength. He adores you, and that's not going to change because of one emotional outburst."

"What if there are others?"

"There won't be."

"How can you be so sure? Maybe I should see a shrink after all."

She paused slightly. "Maybe you should. Maybe a little counselling wouldn't hurt. You've been under a great deal of pressure ever since he was abducted. And now that he's home, you've got yourself a whole new set of problems. But nothing that can't be solved, okay?"

"God, I hope you're right."

"I always am." He could just picture her, sitting there grinning. "Now get some rest. I'll pick you up tomorrow at nine sharp. Don't be late."

"We won't. Good-night."

He hung up, shut off the TV and the reading lamp, and lay down on his back. Mulder's head rested on his flat belly, but he resisted stroking it, afraid to disturb the sleeping man. Instead, he placed his arms around Mulder's shoulders, relishing the closeness he'd so recently denounced. And while he marvelled at how Mulder had forgiven him, and wondered if he could ever forgive himself, he had no idea that he would wake up the next morning to find his biceps covered with bruises shaped like Mulder's fingers. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

FBI Headquarters  
Washington, DC  
September 6, 2000  
10:45 a.m.

Deputy Director Alvin Kersh hadn't expected an entourage.

The original plan was for him and Assistant Directors Stephens and Costello to have a friendly chat with Walter Skinner. A simple three-on-one to discuss such trivial matters as disciplinary action. A psychiatric evaluation. And an OPR hearing. Little things like that.

When Skinner finally returned one of the DD's calls and ever so graciously agreed to put in his first appearance at the J. Edgar Hoover Building in over three months, he hadn't indicated that he'd be bringing his blasted lawyer with him, for Christ's sake. Nor his pet agents. As a result, the meeting had to be moved from Kersh's office to a nearby conference room. But he'd made damned certain it wasn't the same room in which Skinner had attacked him back in May. Fucking lunatic.

"I told you this was going to be an informal meeting, Walter. No need for you to have legal counsel present. Nor your people."

"They're staying anyway, Sir." Oh, Skinner was a defiant bastard these days.

"Agent Mulder doesn't look well," Kersh observed, struggling not to smile. "I don't see the point of having him here. Or you, Agent Scully. Shouldn't you be helping Special Agent Doggett with something?"

"I'm taking some personal time to assist with Agent Mulder's rehabilitation." She glanced at her partner, who was sandwiched between her and their soon-to-be ex-boss. "I'm taking him to an appointment later today, but he and I came here first out of respect for Assistant Director Skinner."

"Uh-huh." Kersh had serious doubts whether Fox Mulder knew *where* he was, never mind why he was there. The man wouldn't look at him, Stephens or Costello. Just sat there between his little friends, staring at his tightly clasped hands, chewing on that ridiculously pouty bottom lip.

"Mr. Kersh." Michael Gerstein, Skinner's lawyer, drew Kersh's attention away from his study of Mulder, and snapped open the briefcase that he'd set on the table. "My client asked me to prepare some documents for you and your superiors to review."

Annoyed that the meeting wasn't going anything like he'd envisioned, Kersh took the large envelope that Gerstein handed him, opened it, and quickly examined its contents. "This--this is preposterous," he sputtered. "The Director will never agree to it. *I'll* never agree to it."

Gerstein stood and began to pack up his belongings. "Mr. Skinner would like a decision to be reached regarding his proposal exactly three weeks from today. My assistant will be in touch to choose a time that will be convenient for all parties to convene. Walter? Agents? Let's go."

Skinner, Mulder and Scully rose as one to leave, but Kersh had no intention of being upstaged in front of his underlings. "I'm not through talking to you, *Mister* Skinner," he snarled. "You should know that you're facing some extremely serious charges, including insubordination. You were ordered to see Dr. English and not to leave the DC area. Running off to Oregon the way you did was a direct violation of Bureau protocol."

Skinner bristled. "Well, *someone* had to go back and look for Agent Mulder. No one here was doing a damned thing to find him."

"You were under suspension. You didn't have the authority--"

"Oh, fuck you and your authority."

"Walter," Gerstein interrupted. "I advise you not to say anything more at this time."

"It's all right, Mike. I know what I'm doing." 

"Sir," Scully added quietly. "I think we should leave now. This is upsetting Agent Mulder."

Skinner turned his back on Kersh and the others, and squeezed Mulder's shoulder gently. His voice dropped an octave. "I'm sorry. You okay?"

Wringing his hands, his entire body vibrating, Mulder nodded.

"Agent Scully," Kersh said while watching Skinner hover over his subordinate like a mother hen. "Have they determined why Agent Mulder isn't talking?" He hadn't read Scully's latest report about her partner. Quite frankly, he was getting bored with the whole thing.

Scully met the DD's eye and held it. "Not yet, Sir."

"Surely they must know by now whether it's the result of physical or mental trauma."

"Extensive testing has shown there are no tumours or other physical abnormalities preventing Agent Mulder from speaking."

Kersh snorted. "Maybe they should try poking him with something sharp. I bet *that* would get him to make some noise."

Mulder may have been mute, but he wasn't deaf. Wheeling to face Kersh, he stiffened and pressed the heels of his hands against his temples. Then his eyes rolled back in his head and he went down like a stone, Skinner catching him just before he hit the ground. 

"Damnit!" Scully was livid. "Get out of here! All of you!" she screamed, then amended, "Not you, Mike. Get me some water. And you, Walter. Help me loosen his tie."

"Should I call 911?" Kersh asked. Mulder croaking at the Hoover would be a public relations disaster.

"No. You've done more than enough. Just leave."

Kersh, Stephens and Costello were on the other side of the conference room door before they realized they'd just taken orders from a lowly agent. And a female one, at that.

"What the hell was that about?" inquired Stephens.

Costello shrugged. "Damned if I know. But did you hear Scully? She called him 'Walter.' I'll bet there really *is* something going on between them."

"I think so, too. Notice the way he hardly looked at her? Like he was avoiding her on purpose?"

Morons. Kersh was surrounded by them.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Thanks." Skinner accepted the moistened handkerchief from Gerstein and pressed it to Mulder's forehead. "Fox. C'mon, babe. Wake up."

"His pulse is strong," Scully told them. "I don't think it's anything serious."

"You think passing out from shear terror isn't serious?" Skinner was sitting on the floor, with Mulder cradled in his arms. Otherwise, he would've gone after Kersh.

Over the past two weeks, Mulder had become highly agitated any time anyone questioned him directly about his inability to communicate verbally. Skinner wasn't surprised at the reaction to Kersh's insensitive comment.

With a hand from Gerstein, Scully got to her feet. "Walter, I know you're upset," she said evenly, smoothing her skirt. "But I'm not the bad guy here."

"Shit," he muttered, then looked up at her. "I'm sorry. I didn't meant to take it out on you." He snorted unpleasantly. "I'm starting to sound like a broken record, aren't I?"

"Don't worry about it. Look, they must have smelling salts or something in the first aid kit down the hall. I'll just go--"

"Wait." Mulder shifted slightly. "He's coming around."

Sure enough, Mulder's eyes opened and focused on Skinner's troubled face. He looked thoroughly perplexed, even more so when he reached out and found himself touching a carpeted floor.

"You, uh, fainted." Skinner stroked Mulder's hair. "You okay now?"

Mulder automatically lifted his arms toward Skinner, then retracted them, glancing wildly around the room. He started to shake again.

"It's all right," Skinner soothed, slipping an arm behind Mulder and pressing him to his chest. "They're gone. They're not here. It's all right."

Mulder squeezed his eyes shut and flattened himself against the warm, firm body until Scully offered him some water. Reluctantly, he sat up and took the paper cup, and would have spilled at least half of it if thick, long fingers hadn't enveloped his hand and guided the cup to his mouth.

"Better?"

There was some colour in Mulder's face now. He nodded.

"Good." Oblivious to his small audience, Skinner kissed Mulder's cheek. "What do you say we skip today's workout and just watch TV? Yeah? Okay." 

That was the "appointment" Scully was referring to earlier. With the blessings of Mulder's doctors and physiotherapist, Skinner had him in the condo's pool and weight room just about every day, performing simple exercises in an effort to help build his body back up. He was making progress, too.

With infinite care, Skinner eased the trembling man off his lap and raised himself up on one knee. "Hold onto my arms, babe, and we'll get you on your feet. Ready? Okay. Here we go."

Gerstein followed Scully's lead and moved in closer to provide additional support, if needed. When his eyes met with Mulder's, the agent's face fell and reddened fiercely. He turned away from the lawyer and stood with his head down.

Skinner immediately understood Mulder's discomfort, and hugged him warmly. "Fox, you're doing great. You were so strong the whole time. What happened wasn't your fault. It was that asshole, Kersh. Not you. I'm really proud of you, babe. Really proud."

Indeed, Mulder was still dry-eyed.

"Me too, partner," Scully added. "Let's get out of here."

Skinner took Mulder by the shoulders and gently walked him backward until his rear end touched the edge of the table. "Sit down first," he instructed, "and let me fix you up a bit."

The shaking subsided but didn't vanish while Skinner straightened Mulder's tie, patted his hair back into place, and readjusted his suit jacket. Mulder had put on a few pounds since he'd started eating solid food again, but his clothes were still ridiculously huge on him, and he'd needed a pair of Skinner's suspenders to keep his trousers up. It made him seem that more child-like and, while Skinner loved the boy inside Mulder, he missed the man Mulder used to be. Missed him terribly.

"There," he said with forced cheerfulness, slinging his arm across Mulder's shoulders and steering him toward the door. "All set."

But Scully blocked their path. "I don't think that's such a good idea."

"He needs my support."

"What he needs, Walter, is to walk out of here under his own power. What he doesn't need is for you to give Kersh any more ammunition to use against him. This is *not* the right time to be breaking down the closet door. For either one of you."

"Agent Scully is right." Gerstein was back in full attorney mode. "I suggest you take her advice."

Skinner wanted to rail at the injustice of it all. He wanted to sweep Mulder off his feet and carry him through the corridors of the Hoover, never to return. He wanted--he wanted to find Mulder's genie and beg her to make his lover whole again.

And maybe she *was* there, lurking somewhere in the background, keeping an eye on her liberator, because Mulder took the hand that was gripping his shoulder just a little too hard and lifted it off. He stepped away from Skinner, breaking their connection as he reached Scully's side. Only a few feet separated the two men, but it might as well have been the Grand Canyon between them.

Skinner inhaled sharply at the loss, exhaling Mulder's name as a small moan.

"Okay, Mulder." Scully saw that her partner was on the verge of tears at last. "The sooner we get out of here, the sooner you and Walter can be together again. Okay?"

Mulder nodded but gazed sadly at Skinner for a few more seconds before patting his tie and, therefore, the ring that was concealed beneath it. 

Momentarily unable to speak himself, Skinner mirrored the gesture and favoured Mulder with a strained smile, then followed the others out of the conference room.

The hallway was mercifully empty, and they made straight for the elevator, hoping to avoid running into anyone they knew. As he walked briskly beside Gerstein, Skinner wished he could make a quick stop to see Kim. His personal assistant--that is, his *former* personal assistant--had been reassigned to AD Cassidy, and had told him she wasn't unhappy there, but would rather still be working for him.

Skinner was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he nearly bumped into someone who was also headed to another floor.

Kersh.

Instinctively, Skinner placed himself between the DD and Mulder. "I hope you're going up, Alvin," he said.

"As a matter of fact--" The metallic chirp announcing the downward-bound car's arrival cut him off.

Skinner ushered his friends into the elevator, then stood in the doorway facing Kersh. "One more thing, *Sir*." Venom all but dripped from his incisors. "You ever make another stupid remark to or about Agent Mulder in my presence again, and it'll take a goddamned army to get me off you."

"Walter." A quiet warning from Gerstein.

 "Listen to your attorney, Skinner. Be careful who you threaten."

"I don't make threats." The doors began to close. "I keep promises."

"So do I," Kersh muttered to no one. "So do I."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 

Michael Gerstein had known Walter Skinner, on and off, for more than 20 years. Hell, nearly a quarter of a century. They'd met in law school, then lost touch until they bumped into each other at a Kennedy Center function in the early '90s. At that time, Skinner was a recent addition to the DC scene; Gerstein had been practising out of Georgetown since '85.

They were never great friends, really, but their wives had hit it off, so the two couples got together occasionally.

Then one night, about four years ago, Gerstein received a call from Skinner. Could he recommend a good divorce lawyer? After being separated for eight months, Sharon Skinner had had enough. Gerstein suggested Walter get Jane Cassal, who also worked at Sharpe, Gerstein and Wellington, to represent him.

But the breakdown of his marriage was the least of his problems. The next time Skinner called Gerstein, it was from Second District Police Station. FBI Assistant Director Skinner accused of murdering a prostitute? Unthinkable. Gerstein hadn't needed to do much for his new client, though, because one of Skinner's agents had uncovered a conspiracy and cleared his boss's name.

Shortly thereafter, the AD told Gerstein about certain paper and electronic files he'd gathered in case the government tried to fuck with him again. "Health and unemployment insurance," he'd called it.

But Gerstein was never more surprised than when good old, straight-shooting Walter Skinner revised his will, leaving the bulk of his estate to one of his agents. The one who'd saved his ass. Fox William Mulder. Next he added Mulder's name to the deed of his condominium, and started giving Gerstein a series of letters and packages, all to be delivered to Fox Mulder in the event of Walter Skinner's untimely demise. 

The first time that Gerstein had ever met the infamous Fox Mulder was two days ago, at the condo in Crystal City. Again, it wasn't what he'd expected. Not at all. Sure, Skinner had told him that Mulder had been abducted and held without ransom for three months before being dumped on the side of a highway in Northwest Oregon, so he was prepared for a less-than-perfect physical specimen. But what he hadn't anticipated was a man who couldn't speak or, apparently, survive being separated from his lover for even a second. No matter what Skinner did--answer the door, bring coffee from the kitchen, sign his name on a legal document--Mulder was right there, like, well, like some damned parasite. Skinner, however, didn't seem to mind. Encouraged it, even. Kept taking Mulder's hand, touching his cheek. The gratitude in Mulder's eyes was pathetic.

And now, as Gerstein sat in the passenger seat of Dana Scully's car, the Hoover no longer in sight, he hoped Skinner knew what the hell he was doing. Gerstein glanced into the rearview mirror and saw that Mulder was lying with his head in Skinner's lap, being petted and comforted like a four-year-old whose dog had just died. God. Was *this* worth giving up a career for?

Obviously, Skinner thought it was. Funny, but in all the years Gerstein had known Skinner, he'd always considered the man something of a cold fish. He had a firm handshake, but wasn't the touchy-feely type. Didn't hug or kiss people's wives or girlfriends. Even kept his hands off Sharon, for the most part. It never even occurred to him then that maybe Walter Skinner preferred the company of men.

Shit.

He just prayed, for Skinner's sake, that Fox Mulder was equally devoted. And wondered if the mute man had any idea what Skinner was giving up on his behalf.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Except for the incident at the Hoover, one would've thought it had been a good week for Walter Skinner. Mulder was remembering more. Important things. Words and numbers now meant something to him but, while he could read, he still couldn't write. When it came to throwing things across the room in childish frustration, he'd graduated from books to pens.

And Mulder no longer stuck to Skinner like fly paper all the time. He went to the bathroom by himself, and didn't automatically follow the older man when *he* had to go.

There were other signs of improvement, such as fewer tears and panic attacks.

An outside observer would've sworn that Fox Mulder was becoming more independent. More like his old self.

But Skinner knew better. And it was breaking his heart.

Mulder could fool his doctors--even Scully, to some extent--but not Skinner, who saw through the act.

And what a convincing act it was. All for his benefit, of course. Although Mulder was still scared out of his mind to be parted from Skinner--still craved his constant touch--he'd been doing his damnedest to conceal his true feelings. Why? To give Skinner some respite.

Jesus.

Despite the brave front, Skinner knew that Mulder needed him all the time. To be there for every test, every examination. So he was. It's what he wanted, too, and if it made him unpopular with the staff of the various clinics they visited, well, that was too fucking bad. It took him, with Scully's help, 15 minutes to convince them to let him hold Mulder's hand during the CAT scan.

Now there was one major test to be performed, but the chances of it happening any time soon were highly unlikely. Mulder had turned chalk white when the MRI technician explained the claustrophobic procedure, yet had been willing to go along with it just the same, as if to do anything else would disappoint Skinner. But it was Skinner who'd put his foot down and cancelled the test, knowing full well that Mulder would never be able to remain still for that long and withstand the isolation.

"Walter!" Scully was livid as Skinner helped Mulder into the car. "Do you know how difficult it was to schedule that appointment on such short notice? Do you even give a damn about how foolish you just made me look?"

"I'm sorry about that, Dana. I really am. But there was no way in hell I was going to put him through that. At least, not now."

She was a passenger rather than the chauffeur, for a change, and threw her bag viciously into the back seat ahead of her. "Give him a little credit. He would've been fine. You're being a little overprotective, don't you think?"

Skinner slammed the door and turned angrily to face her. "Listen to me for just a goddamned minute. You're not there at three o'clock in the fucking morning when his nightmares wake me up. When he's thrashing around, and crying and screaming without making a fucking sound, and it takes me half an hour to calm him down because he's been remembering in his sleep whatever they did to him on that fucking spaceship. So don't go telling me I'm being overprotective when he--"

The sound of the passenger door opening cut the tirade short.

"Fox?" He reached across the seat, but Mulder was already gone, stumbling toward the shrubs that marked the edge of the medical centre's parking lot. "Damnit!"

Scully got to him first, had the pleasure of seeing him toss his breakfast.

Then Skinner was there, on his knees in the dirt beside Mulder, rubbing his back and offering him a handkerchief. Without looking up, Mulder took it and wiped his mouth.

"You done, babe?"

He nodded weakly and leaned away from the mess he'd made.

Scully must have gone back to the car, because she was now holding out a bottle of water. "Here, Mulder. Rinse out your mouth and have a drink."

As he watched Mulder follow his partner's instructions, Skinner realized that it wasn't sweat making Mulder's pale face shine, but tears.

Shit.

"Fox." Skinner sat down directly in front of Mulder and squeezed his knee. "Fox, look at me. Please."

Hesitantly, Mulder met his eyes.

"Thank you. I'm--I'm sorry, babe. Sorry I lost my temper with Dana like that. Sorry I said things that made you feel bad. Sorry I talked about you like you weren't even there. I just want--I want things to get better, but all I ever seem to do is upset you."

Mulder shook his head and tried valiantly to stop crying, as if to prove Skinner wrong.

An engine turning over nearby startled the three of them.

"Let's go back to the car," Scully suggested, suddenly very weary. Even so, she helped pull Mulder to his feet, then followed the two entwined men back to Skinner's car.

"I'm sorry too, Mulder," she continued, once they were on the road, heading for home. "I should know by now not to argue with Walter. He knows what's best for you. Knows you better than anyone. Sometimes I forget that."

Mulder twisted in his seat and looked at her with red-rimmed eyes. His colour had come back, and he was placid once more. Nodding slowly, he extended his free hand toward her and she took it, held it all the way back to Crystal City.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Skinner and Mulder's Apartment  
Crystal City, VA  
September 8, 2000  
9:58 p.m.

He was getting undressed--all by himself--when the small framed photo on *his* night table caught his eye. It was a welcome distraction. After popping his head through the neck of his tee-shirt, Mulder crawled across the king-sized bed and took the picture, examining it closely while sitting cross-legged on *his* pillow.

It was a photo of the two of them. Kissing. On the lips. Looked like they were trying to eat each other's faces.

He scratched his head. He'd seen it somewhere before.

"Whatcha got there, babe?" *He* was back from a quick trip to the bathroom--the only time he'd voluntarily left Mulder's side all day.

Mulder held up the picture for inspection.

"Oh." *He* sat down next to him. "Do you remember where that was taken?"

He shook his head, sadly.

"That's okay." A strong arm encircled Mulder's shoulders. "You will. It was taken during our first vacation together. Almost two years ago. We went to Key West. Florida."

No bells were rung.

"That's where I taught you to rollerblade. And we went snorkelling."

Mulder wasn't even sure what snorkelling was, and looked at *him* apologetically.

"It's okay, Fox. I'm sure it'll come back to you." The little frame was gently removed from Mulder's hand and returned to the night table. "Time for lights out, soldier. Been a long day."

But when *he* turned to kiss Mulder good-night, Mulder lifted his face and let the kiss catch his lips instead of his forehead.

"Uh, um, well. Okay, then. G'night, Fox. I love you."

Nodding, Mulder patted himself in the centre of his chest and lay down, snuggling up to the bigger body.

But, as physically and emotionally exhausted as he was, he didn't fall asleep right away, unable to get the photo out of his mind. No, he didn't remember anything about Key West, but he *did* remembering kissing. On the mouth. He knew with absolute certainty that they used to do it. A lot. None of that peck-on-the-forehead bullshit.

And there was more.

He slid his hand down to *his* hip, the firm skin radiating heat through the thin cotton pyjama bottoms.

It was all wrong.

*He*--no, both of them used to sleep naked. Before.

Before they took him away and made him ugly. And stupid. And afraid of just about everything.

God, if only he could remember all of the "before" time. And only the "before" time. Unfortunately, every good memory that resurfaced was accompanied by a bad one. And repressing and ignoring the things that scared him was getting harder and harder to do.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

September 9, 2000  
7:38 a.m.

Skinner was seriously considering showering twice: the first time on his own, so he could jerk off and stop himself from wanting to hump Mulder the second time.

Damn.

"You do your, uh, front, and I'll do the back," he'd suggested when he started getting hard while washing all of Mulder. Now even that had devolved to, "You wash the bottom"--that is, from the waist down--"and I'll do the top."

Today Skinner was feeling particularly brittle. He'd gone to sleep with the taste of Mulder's lips on his, and awoke to find Mulder's hand resting casually against his groin. His morning hard-on, actually.

He tried sneaking out of bed and into the bathroom without waking Mulder, but had no such luck.

Maybe his luck would change and he'd have a mild heart attack.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Mulder was perfectly capable of washing his own hair. But *he* said he enjoyed doing it, so who was Mulder to argue? As if anyone would turn down having those big, strong hands massage his scalp, his neck, his temples. He could stand there like that forever, with his shoulder blades almost touching *his* broad chest, eyes closed, head tilted back slightly to keep the shampoo out of his eyes.

He usually used this time to zone out and just relish being pampered. But today there was something on his mind. Something he couldn't stop thinking about.

Kissing.

As thick fingers worked his soapy hair, Mulder had vivid recollections of being thoroughly kissed and kissing back thoroughly.

And not just mouth-to-mouth stuff, either.

Their lips had known every part of each other's body. He was sure of it. And their tongues! Oh, God. Mulder felt his face grow hot, glad his back was to *him*.

"Fox?"

Wha--? He glanced over his shoulder.

"I said, hold out your hand."

Getting back on track, Mulder raised his cupped palm and received a squirt of liquid soap. He reached down to wash himself while *he* scrubbed at Mulder's arms and shoulders and back, always stopping well short of his skinny little ass. *He* only did from the waist up now.

And Mulder knew why.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

In his mind, Skinner could picture himself closing the small gap between him and Mulder, until his cock butted up against the cleft of Mulder's ass. Then he would slide his slick hands around Mulder's chest and seek out the small nipples, gently pinching and pulling them while feasting on the slippery wetness of Mulder's neck.

Instead, he put as much distance between them as he could while still being able to run the face cloth over Mulder's skin.

He couldn't do this any more. Maybe, starting tomorrow, he'd suggest that Mulder wash his own body from now on while Skinner shampooed his hair. He'd need to give a reason, though. To save time? It was lame, but perhaps Mulder would buy it.

Or, more likely, he would know he was being lied to, but not why.

Shit.

Regardless, it wasn't tomorrow yet, so he still had to do Mulder's chest.

"Face me, babe." He really didn't want to go the full frontal nudity route right now. But washing Mulder's chest from behind would certainly cause his dick to come into contact with Mulder's ass at some point, which was just as bad. Talk about being between a rock and a hard place.

"Fox?" Skinner turned the wool gatherer around by the shoulder, confused by the strange expression Mulder was wearing. Confused until he looked down at Mulder's right hand, and the erect penis it was supporting.

Skinner's head snapped up. He wiped at Mulder's chest ineffectually. "There," he all but squeaked. "Finished."

Making an abrupt one-eighty, he grabbed his own dick, squeezing the base expertly to keep it from getting any harder. Or shooting off.

He missed the horrible, pained look on Mulder's long face.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

They had to be at Gerstein's office by 10:30 that morning. Skinner needed to provide his lawyer with some additional information, as well as sign a few documents. There were also papers for Mulder to mark--ironically, with an X.

Throughout the brief but intense meeting, Mulder was somewhere else all together. It wasn't as though he was disinterested in what was being discussed, but distracted by whatever was buzzing around in his mixed-up brain. At one point, Skinner asked him if he was feeling sick. Mulder just shook his head, keeping his eyes lowered. Did Mulder disagree with what was going down? Again, no.

Later, at home, he picked at his lunch, finally giving up and leaving the table to use the bathroom. And he didn't want company.

Skinner cursed softly and pushed his own food away. Poor Mulder. He had to be flustered and embarrassed over getting a boner in the shower. He'd probably just touched himself the wrong way--well, the *right* way--and the damned thing had come to life.

Boy, had it ever.

And it was beautiful. Beautiful enough to give *Skinner's* cock ideas. Ideas that made him feel like a latent child molester.

Fuck.

He glanced at his watch, alarmed. Mulder had been gone a long time.

He knocked the kitchen chair over in his haste to get upstairs.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Mulder stared at his reflection with haunted eyes.

He definitely wasn't the man he used to be. That man was better looking. Stronger. Smarter. That man was a man worth kissing. And touching. Everywhere. All the time. That was a man *he* liked having sex with.

But not him. Not this lesser version of Fox Mulder.

*He* no longer saw Mulder as a lover, and was scared off by Mulder's sexuality. Repulsed. Sickened.

Well, no damned wonder, Mulder silently scolded the freak staring back at him. You're nothing but a useless middle-aged man with an underdeveloped body and an overdeveloped nose.

A light knocking roused him.

"Fox? You all right?"

Mulder hung up the hand towel he'd been twisting and opened the door.

"Hi." *He* looked worried. "Do you want to lie down for a while?"

Mulder was still greatly fatigued and, more often than not, napped after lunch. He nodded solemnly and let himself be led, by the hand, to their bedroom. The bedroom where they used to do more than just sleep together.

*He* always napped with him; whether *he* always slept or not was another question. Something Mulder didn't know. And couldn't ask.

"Warm enough, babe?" *he* asked, covering Mulder with a light blanket. "Good."

*He* kissed the tip of Mulder's nose, but when *he* started to pull Mulder into position against *him*, Mulder squirmed out of reach.

For a few seconds, the room was quiet in a way that was frighteningly familiar. Mulder squeezed his eyes shut and tried to remain calm.

"Fox. Are you--are you mad at me?"

Keeping his back to *him*, Mulder shook his head.

"Okay." *He* brushed the tips of his fingers across Mulder's back. "Just don't feel like cuddling right now, huh?"

He swallowed audibly, then shook his head, terrified *he* would leave.

The warm hand was withdrawn. "Okay. No cuddling, then. Okay. Well. Get some rest. I love you, Fox. Still--still love me?"

Mulder nodded.

It took three whole minutes--the longest three minutes he'd ever known--before he scooted over to *his* side of the bed and was gathered into loving arms.

"Fox," *he* said as Mulder began taking wet, gulping breaths. "I wish you could tell--wish I knew what was wrong. How I could help."

But Mulder believed no one could help him now, and cried himself to sleep on *his* solid chest.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Something had happened. And hell if Skinner had any idea what it was.

All he knew was that Mulder was deteriorating emotionally. For a little while there, after they'd come home, he'd seen glimpses of the old Fox Mulder. Playful. Stubborn. Relaxed. Resilient.

Until Skinner had freaked out on him.

That had set things back.

Now something else had come along and really fucked-up the recovery process. Mulder was back to being afraid of his own shadow. And he was crying again. Oh, he tried to hide it, but the puffy eyes and sniffing and heaving shoulders always gave him away. He greedily accepted Skinner's stepped-up affection, but it didn't make a difference in his demeanour. In fact, the more Skinner told Mulder how much he loved him, the more melancholy he became.

Even Scully, who'd gone back to work but still visited nearly every day, was concerned. She'd told Skinner she couldn't understand how two people could look so disconsolate when their body language delivered the exact opposite message. Especially Mulder.

Of course, Mulder had to be frustrated beyond the pale over his inability to communicate. And the intensity of his nightmares was on the rise, so it was conceivable he was starting to remember some of the more horrific aspects of his abduction, and suffering because of it.

But Skinner believed there was more to it than that. That it was connected to what had been happening at home.

Mulder had started taking showers by himself.

The first time he did it was the morning following the erection fiasco. After the two men had finished working out in the condo's weight room and pool, Mulder hadn't stuck to the routine, which including towelling off and going up to their unit to bathe and dress. Instead, he'd headed straight for the locker room, stepped into one of the four small shower stalls, and washed the chlorine out of his hair. He'd kept his swim trunks on the whole time.

The next morning, he'd stayed in bed until Skinner was finished in the bathroom, then showered on his own. He'd been doing that ever since.

On one hand, Skinner was glad. Facing a wet, naked, beautiful man every morning, and not being able to touch him the way he wanted, had been getting unbearable. But he was also miserable because he knew the separation was hurting Mulder. And he didn't know why Mulder was giving him so much privacy all of a sudden. Could he be *that* embarrassed over being caught sporting a woody in the shower?

There was another possibility. One that pained Skinner to consider.

Perhaps Mulder had seen the way Skinner's cock had begun to perk up that morning, and had been frightened by the implication.

No. That didn't make sense. Mulder still wore Skinner to bed like a nightshirt. But, judging by the trembling and weeping that often accompanied the cuddling, it was like he had no choice in the matter.

Fuck! If only Mulder could tell him what was wrong.

But maybe Mulder himself didn't know.

Walter Skinner prayed for a miracle.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

September 17, 2000  
10:52 a.m.

For the most part, it was a typical Sunday in the Skinner-Mulder household. They got up around nine, shaved but didn't shower, and ate an extravagant breakfast that Skinner prepared. This morning it was decadently thick slices of smoky bacon and fluffy omelettes oozing with cheddar cheese and fresh mushrooms.

Unlike Sundays of yore, though, Mulder ate only dutifully. And didn't utter a word.

Still, Skinner was determined to make the day as normal as possible. His showdown at the Hoover was just 10 days away, and if there was the slightest chance that something as soothingly mundane as their Sunday routine would help restore the rest of Mulder's memory, well, he was going for it.

So, after they cleaned up the kitchen, they retired to the living room, sprawled out on the couch, and divided the newspaper between them. As Skinner handed him the sports section, he thanked heaven that Mulder could at least read again. The two men then sat a lot closer than they usually did, actually leaning into each other. Contrary to his earlier complaints of being smothered, Skinner hoped this new level of physical intimacy would continue if and when Mulder was fully recovered.

He was still working his way through the international news when Mulder swapped the sports for the entertainment section. He'd been listless all morning, showing no enthusiasm for his reading material. How Skinner missed being interrupted in the middle of a particularly interesting article by a mischievous imp reciting Redskins' stats or, of all things, cricket scores! There was only one way Skinner could shut him up, which more often than not led to the bedroom or, if they'd been frisky the night before, the shower for some playful sex. He didn't want to think about any of that right now.

He was startled back to the present when Mulder suddenly sat bolt upright. Afraid Mulder had come across something that had triggered a bad memory, Skinner looked at what the younger man had been reading, and was relieved to see it was just the puzzle page.

"Fox?" He put his own section down and squeezed Mulder's shoulder. "What's the matter?" he asked uselessly, out of habit.

Mulder tore his eyes away from the paper he was gripping and locked them onto Skinner's concerned face. Amazingly, he jumped to his feet, dropped the paper on the coffee table, and ran into the kitchen, returning moments later with a pen.

"Fox?"

Mulder kneeled, pen in hand, and stared at the crossword puzzle while Skinner looked on, confused as all hell. Then Mulder's right hand moved to the page and, using painstakingly slow and unsteady strokes, filled in One Across.

"Oh, my God."

After a quick glance at the clues, Mulder inked in another word. Then another. And another. And the more boxes he filled in, the faster and better his printing got.

Skinner slid off the couch and knelt beside Mulder, a shaking hand resting lightly against Mulder's back while the puzzle was completed. Then Mulder put down the pen and turned to Skinner, smiling for the first time since--since that morning in the shower.

Skinner smiled right back and pulled Mulder into his arms. "Fox, this is wonderful! I'm so proud of you! So proud."

The hug was a long one, and Skinner didn't even realize his knees were bothering him. He was too focused on the way Mulder's hair smelled, and the way Mulder's face felt against the side of his neck, and the way Mulder's body was pressing into him.

Then Mulder's silky cheek was touching his, then his nose, and those lush lips were so temptingly close...

Skinner pulled away, took Mulder by the shoulders, and hauled them both to their feet. "I should call Dana. Tell her the good news. Maybe invite her over for dinner to celebrate. What do you think?"

But Mulder looked anything like a guy who wanted to rejoice. He shook free of Skinner's hold and stumbled backward to the couch, sitting down heavily and burying his face in his hands.

Oh, shit. Skinner sat on the edge of the coffee table, across from Mulder. "What's wrong, babe?" He knew it had nothing to do with Scully. Somehow, he'd fucked things up. Again. He tapped at the pen still clutched in Mulder's hand. "Tell me. Please."

Mulder shook his head.

"Fox. Don't do this to me. To us. You've been really upset since--for a while now, and I think I know why, but I'm not sure, so I want you--I *need* you to tell me. Please."

Skinner's voice broke on the last word, and Mulder finally looked up, tears streaming down his face.

"Oh, baby." This was killing him. "Now that you can communicate--" He indicated the pen. "--you've got to tell me why you're so sad. It's me, isn't it? Something I've done. That's it, isn't it?"

Mulder lowered his gaze to study his hands.

The room suddenly seemed a lot warmer to Skinner. Smaller, too. "I love you," he said huskily. "More than anything in this world. You know that, right?"

Mulder's slow, hesitant nod made Skinner wince.

"I do, Fox. And I'm sorry--so, so sorry--if I've hurt you. I didn't mean to. But I can't make it up to you, make things better, if you don't let me know exactly what I did. Or didn't do. Please, baby. I'm *begging* you."

That brought Mulder's head back up. With obvious reluctance, he stood up, wiped angrily at his wet face, and scanned the room.

"What are you looking for? Oh." He walked over to the phone and retrieved the notepad beside it. "Will this do?"

Mulder nodded and sat down. He just stared at the blank top sheet for so long that Skinner thought he'd forgotten how to write again. But Mulder came through without any prompting. When he finished, he tore off the sheet and held it out. It fluttered, moth-like, in the space between them before Skinner had the guts to take it. And read it.

YOU THINK I'M REPULSIVE.

He read the short sentence, then read it again, then again, the shaking of his head more pronounced each time. "No. Baby, no! My God! How could you think that? You'll always be my beautiful boy. How many times have I told you that since I got you back?"

Mulder scribbled another note.

I'M NOT A BABY. OR A BOY. I'M A MAN.

This one didn't require repeated readings. "I know that, Fox. You're a wonderful man."

More furious writing.

A HIDEOUS MAN.

"No! How can you say that?"

YOU WON'T EVEN KISS ME.

"What do you mean? I kiss you all the time."

NOT LIKE YOU USED TO. NOT ON THE MOUTH.

God. The photo from Key West. He knew he should've put that fucking thing away.

YOU NEVER USED TO WEAR CLOTHES TO BED. OR MAKE ME WEAR THEM.

Skinner's mouth fell open. There were no pictures of them sleeping naked. Which meant that Mulder had remembered details of their sex life. And, if he had, that meant--

Oh, no.

I'M NOT ANGRY WITH YOU FOR NOT WANTING TO FU (scratched out) MAKE LOVE TO ME ANYMORE. I DON'T BLAME YOU. I KNOW WHAT I'VE BECOME. BUT IT STILL HURTS.

"My God! I don't believe this. You've got it all wrong."

HAVE I? YOU COULDN'T BEAR TO LOOK AT ME WHEN I GOT THAT HARD-ON IN THE SHOWER.

On the verge of hysteria, Skinner took a deep breath and wrapped his fingers around Mulder's right wrist. "Fox, listen to me for a minute. Okay? When you came back last month, you couldn't even feed yourself. Or brush your teeth. Or tie your shoes. You were very, well, child-like. And in no condition--not physically, not mentally--to have sex."

Mulder's writing hand twitched, but Skinner stilled it. "Wait. Let me finish. *You* might not have been ready to make love back then, but my dick sure was. Do you have any idea how damned difficult it was to shower and sleep with you and not be able to have you? I was so afraid I was going to lose control and take advantage of you that I started pulling back. That time in the shower? I thought your erection was, I don't know, an accident. And the reason I turned my back on you--on it--was because I was getting aroused. And I felt like a fucking degenerate."

This time when Mulder's hand moved, Skinner let it go.

I WAS AROUSED TOO. IT WAS NO ACCIDENT. AND YOU'RE NOT A DEGENERATE.

"No, I'm an idiot. I thought--When you started showering by yourself, I thought you were just giving me a break. Some more space. Or were afraid of me."

Mulder shook his head vehemently.

"So all this time--Shit! Why didn't you just tell me you were ready to make love?"

I COULDN'T. I DIDN'T KNOW HOW. AND I WAS AFRAID YOU'D REJECT ME IF I TRIED ANYTHING.

"Jesus." Skinner took Mulder's left hand in both of his and held it against his erratically beating heart. "I can't believe you really thought that! I would never--ever--reject you. And I'm sorry if I ever gave you that impression, because it's just not true."

His left hand still happily trapped, Mulder awkwardly penned another note.

PROVE IT.

He put down the pen and notepad while his message was read, then found himself gazing into eyes filled with as much love and desire as his own. Reaching out with just a trace of a tremor, he removed his beloved's glasses and placed them out of harm's way.

"Fox." Skinner moved closer and gently caught Mulder's face between his palms, tilting it at the perfect angle for their mouths to meet. Mulder's lips parted immediately, so warm and inviting and hungry, but Skinner held his tongue back so he could savour the sweetness of their first real kiss in months. Tenderly, he encircled Mulder's head with his arms in a protective, possessive gesture, while Mulder clutched at Skinner's back through his tee-shirt.

Eventually, the kisses grew deeper and, despite the delirium that was building, Skinner gently gathered Mulder into his arms and lay back, pulling Mulder down on top of him. Slowly, carefully, he rolled them onto their sides so that Mulder's back was against the back of the couch. But he left enough space that he could slide his hands under Mulder's sweatshirt to caress the bony spine and shoulder blades.

Mulder quickly followed suit, slipping his hands up the back of Skinner's tee-shirt, then bringing them around to the front so he could run his palms along the impressive pectorals, the first touch of a nipple eliciting a low, guttural moan.

His brain was melting; Skinner knew at this point he should be divesting Mulder of his shirt, and losing his own. But the feel and taste of Mulder's lips and tongue were too good, too addictive, to give up for even a moment. Instead, he settled for hiking the superfluous clothing up to their armpits, ecstatic to feel Mulder's nipples against his.

But that was nothing compared to the electricity that raced through Skinner's body when Mulder's fingers dipped into the front of his sweatpants and gripped his stiffening cock. In seconds, both men were bare-assed, their cotton-encased legs entwined in an effort to bring their erections into perfect alignment.

Skinner whimpered into Mulder's generous mouth when a greedy hand cupped his balls, then glided up to mid-shaft and squeezed. He responded by grasping Mulder's cock and pumping firmly. He was breathing so heavily he almost missed the tiny gasp that escaped from the back of Mulder's throat--a joyful, welcome sound that moved him to tears. Then Mulder's fingers seemed to touch him in all the right places at once, and Skinner finally broke the marathon kiss, crying out against the sweaty flesh of Mulder's neck, his entire body shuddering with orgasmic rapture. Before he was finished, Mulder began to buck, then bit down on Skinner's shoulder as he came in a warm, steady torrent.

They clung to each other for several minutes, panting harshly. Skinner was the first to brave a look at the mess they'd made of the couch. But he only had eyes for Mulder's beautiful penis--rosy red, still fairly plump, and bathed in ejaculate. Gracefully, he slithered down Mulder's semi-naked body and took the spent organ into his mouth, and felt Mulder shiver with the unexpected pleasure of it. At the same time, he massaged Mulder's cum-covered stomach with his equally gooey hand.

"God, you taste so good," he whispered, then looked up to find Mulder staring at him while sucking the evidence of Skinner's passion off his fingers. The older man groaned at the sight and returned to his original position, licking at Mulder's chin and lips before diving in for a long, noisy kiss.

He soon realized that the possibility of them falling asleep right where they were--and waking up sticky, cold and otherwise uncomfortable--was pretty high. Grunting, he tore himself away from his lover and pulled his soggy sweatpants back up. "C'mon," he said. "Let's clean up a bit then take a nap. A *naked* nap."

Mulder's eyes went from unfocused to crystal clear, and he all but sprang off the couch. Laughing, Skinner scooped him up--he was still underweight, but decidedly heavier than he'd been the previous week--and carried him upstairs and into the bathroom. They stripped and ran a damp washcloth over each other, then sauntered back to bed, kissing and petting softly until they drifted off.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When Skinner woke a couple of hours later, he could easily be forgiven for momentarily believing that the last few months had been the worst kind of nightmare. Because there was Mulder, wearing nothing but a dreamy smile, lips swollen and hair matted, draped across him like a living quilt. Mulder smelled delicious, like toast and coffee. And sweat and sex.

The object of the loving scrutiny soon stirred, long lashes fluttering seductively against the softness of Skinner's neck. Mulder kissed the skin there, then worked his way up to a mouth that was more than ready to return the favour.

"Hey." Skinner bussed the tip of Mulder's nose. "How do you feel?"

Mulder used his index finger to spell out the word GREAT across Skinner's chest, shattering Skinner's illusion of normalcy. He pulled Mulder into a bear hug, hoping to pass off his despair over Mulder's eerie silence as joy over the return of his ability to write.

When he felt he was under control again, he spoke quietly into Mulder's ear. "It's after one. Do you want to eat first, then take a shower?"

As if it had a mind of its own, Mulder's stomach spoke for him. In long, loud hyena.

Skinner had to snort. "I'll take that as a 'yes,' then."

Mulder leaned back just far enough so they could see each other and grinned. He kicked off the covers, let himself be pulled into a sitting position, and stretched, yawning soundlessly. God, you could still count his ribs, but at least the signs of new muscle development were there. As Skinner dressed, he watched appreciatively as his *lover* yanked a fresh sweatshirt over his head and shimmied into a pair of jeans, sans underwear. He did put on a pair of socks, though. Thick ones.

Before leaving the room, the two men met at the foot of the bed and shared a silly, sloppy kiss, then flung their arms around each other and ambled down to the kitchen.

Preparing and eating a simple lunch had never been such a long and involved process. They spent an inordinate amount of time feeding each other bits of meat and other sandwich fixings, then almost let the canned soup burn because they were too busy necking.

And it was difficult to hold a regular-paced conversation when one of the participants had to rely on pen and paper. Especially when that man had become used to computer keyboards, and his handwriting would never win any awards.

While clearing the table nearly an hour after they'd sat down, Mulder tugged on Skinner's shirt hem and passed him what turned out to be his final note.

I LOVE YOU.

He'd drawn a less-than-symmetrical heart around the three words, but the effort produced the desired effect. Skinner chuckled as he blinked back the unexpected emotion the simple phrase evoked. There was no question how Mulder felt about him. But he'd always loved hearing it, and, now, seeing it in writing was nearly as satisfying.

"C'mon," he said, and guided Mulder by the hand back upstairs and into the bathroom. They stripped down quickly while the water warmed up, then stepped under the shower. Even with eyes closed and lips locked, they did a pretty thorough job of washing each other, although some body parts got a bit more attention than others. Skinner had been mildly embarrassed, as well as disappointed, about coming at cheetah speed earlier, but wouldn't have to worry about that this time. His plan was to make slow, sweet love to Mulder; to pull out all the stops until Mulder, consciously or not, made those beautiful, primal noises that never failed to turn Skinner rock hard in seconds. Maybe he couldn't make Mulder talk the way he used to but, maybe, if he pushed all the right buttons, he could get Mulder to say *something*. That, at least, would be a huge step forward.

The two men let their slick hands run wild until the water began to cool, then rinsed away the soapy film and did a half-assed job of drying off before tumbling back onto their rumpled bed.

"Fox," Skinner hissed, rubbing the proof of his excitement along Mulder's thigh. "I would love--really love--to be in the driver's seat for this one. Is that okay with you?"

Mulder nodded enthusiastically.

"That means I don't want you to do anything but lie there and let me make you feel good. Okay?"

Yes, yes, yes.

"If I start doing something you don't like, or if you're feeling uncomfortable and want me to stop, just tap any part of me twice. Got that?"

Mulder just looked at him like he'd lost his mind, then grabbed him by the head and dragged him down for another smouldering kiss.

"Brat," Skinner mumbled, then slid his mouth down to Mulder's chin, licking and nipping delicately at its tender underside. From there he travelled to Mulder's Adam's apple, then devoted equal amounts of time to both sides of Mulder's neck and entire ear areas, grimacing inwardly when his tongue skated over the tiny implant. "I love you," he whispered impulsively, then carried on to Mulder's shoulders.

Collar bones, hollow of the throat, even nipples--Mulder remained discouragingly soundless until Skinner reached the right armpit. The first swipe of tongue through the baby-fine hair, over the rising gooseflesh, provoked a subtle yet definite moan that escaped from between Mulder's pursed lips. When Mulder didn't react to his own noise, Skinner started breathing again and visited every erogenous zone he'd had the good fortune to discover on Mulder's responsive body. All but the most obvious, that is. Those would be saved for later. Much later, after he'd reduced Mulder to a babbling mass of nerve endings.

The small squeaks Mulder made when Skinner nibbled the crooks of his elbows and the insides of his wrists were only half as loud as the groans he couldn't hold back when Skinner licked the soles of his feet, which were highly sensitive--to tongue baths, anyway--but not ticklish. He quieted down while having his toes sucked, but writhed in obvious enjoyment. The moaning started up again as Skinner mouthed Mulder's ankles and the backs of his knees and thighs. He became more vociferous as the adoring lips traced the curve of his butt, but managed to calm himself when Skinner began planting kisses and kittenish bites all over his cheeks. He certainly was breathing hard, though.

"Babe," Skinner panted, "I want to eat this beautiful ass of yours now, okay?"

Mulder glanced over his shoulder and shot Skinner a look of approval, then drew up his legs and spread his knees wide open, resting his forehead on his folded arms.

But Skinner wasn't prepared to rush things. Besides, he'd decided it was time to up the ante.

"You are so gorgeous," he said in a low, smoky voice while just the tips of his fingers trailed up and down Mulder's perineum. "All of you. Your face. Your throat. Your chest. Your arms and legs. Your cock. Your balls. And this." His hand stopped at Mulder's opening. "I love your tight little hole."

Mulder shivered. Skinner didn't talk dirty to him all that often, but when he did--usually when he was horny as hell, when they'd been apart for any length of time--it made Mulder really hot.

"I love fucking your ass with my tongue. I'm going to lick and suck you 'til you get all loose, then I'm going to stick my tongue deep inside you. And I'm gonna scrape those inner walls with it and try like hell to touch your prostate. But if I can't, I'll use my fingers. And then my cock. Because I want you, Fox. You make me crazy. I wanna fuck you and love you so hard that neither one of us will be able to walk normally for a week."

Mulder was totally getting into it. During Skinner's little speech, he'd spread his legs even further apart and raised his ass even higher.

Skinner knew it was time to stop teasing and get serious. Kneeling between Mulder's legs, he gently parted his lover's cheeks and bent forward. He started out modestly, chastely kissing the tightly puckered opening. Then he began licking the entire cleft, from Mulder's scrotum all the way up to his tailbone, up and down, finally zeroing in on his anus. He rimmed it thoroughly, then placed his mouth over it and sucked until he heard Mulder hiss. Pushing his face even further into Mulder's ass, he plunged his tongue into the writhing body, licking Mulder's insides as promised, nearly losing himself in the heady, honeyed goodness of it.

But he didn't want Mulder to come like this. There were two more body parts--important ones--yet to tend to.

He swore he heard Mulder whimper "no" when he withdrew his tongue and slid his hands down the outsides of Mulder's thighs. Close. He was so close to bringing Mulder all the way back to him.

"Stretch out, Fox. I want you on your back now so I can suck you."

Mulder was so wasted at this point that rolling him over was child's play. But there was nothing child-like about his erection.

Skinner stroked Mulder's flushed face with one hand, his dick with the other. "Oh, God. Your cock--it's gorgeous." He used the pad of his thumb to spread the gelatinous pre-cum over the crown. "So perfect. The length and thickness and shape. Everything. I love looking at it and touching it and kissing it and sucking it and having you fuck me with it. Hey!" he admonished mildly, as desperate hands reached out to reciprocate. "Remember what I said earlier: I get to do all the work this time. You can do whatever you want to me later. Anything."

With that, he slithered down Mulder's quivering body and fondled his sac. "Your balls are incredible, too. So big and heavy and suckable." He felt Mulder tense as he took one testicle, then the other, into his mouth. When they began to draw upward, Skinner knew to move on to Mulder's cock. He would have Mulder's ass later; right now, the need to drink Mulder down was nearly overwhelming.

Working swiftly, he positioned himself at a 45-degree angle from Mulder's crotch, with his head pointed toward Mulder's feet. Skinner slipped his left hand under Mulder's backside and wiggled his middle finger between his cheeks, elated to find the little hole still moist and relaxed. With the other hand, he guided Mulder's cock to his lips and started to lick it, from base to tip. A gurgling sound from the prone man was Skinner's cue to release him from this prolonged torture. At first he just drew in the glossy tip, then eased the rest of the thrumming erection into his mouth. Keeping his thumb and forefinger at the base for support, he stretched his other fingers down to massage Mulder's tightening balls. Amazing how something he hadn't done for so long came back to him so easily. Just like riding a bicycle. But so much more pleasurable. As he began to suck with true purpose, he wormed his finger deeper into Mulder's ass. Deeper, deeper...

The moment the blunt fingertip found the prostate, Mulder jerked and inhaled sharply. Skinner expected to hear a yelp, and when it didn't come, he poked the reactive gland again and sucked Mulder's cock even harder, taking it further into his mouth.

But the only warning he had before Mulder exploded was a brief stiffening of Mulder's body. He thrashed as he orgasmed, but was utterly, deathly quiet.

Skinner released Mulder's balls and slid his hand up the shaft, pumping it while it emptied into his mouth. When Mulder was finished, Skinner sucked gently for a little while longer, swallowing every precious drop. It tasted wonderful, but there was acid at the back of this throat, flooding him with bitterness.

He sat up and looked toward the head of the bed. Mulder's chest was rising and falling rapidly, his eyes were closed, his lips were curled upward, his skin was glistening. He looked totally debauched. And totally radiant. Skinner sighed and lay down beside his lover, and covered them both with the first blanket he found.

Mulder turned to him and smiled beatifically. But the smile mutated into a puzzled frown when he reached under the covers and touched Skinner's flaccid penis. He tapped Skinner's hipbone twice.

"Don't you even think it," Skinner warned him, reading his mind. "You know you turn me on. I proved that earlier today."

Mulder sat up but continued to stare at Skinner, troubled by his mate's apparent lack of interest.

Skinner rolled onto his back and covered his eyes with his arm. "This is my problem. Not yours. I'll be fine later, so just forget about it, okay?"

But it wasn't okay, and Skinner wasn't all that surprised when Mulder grabbed his arm and shoved it away. Mulder's face was very pale except for bright spots of colour high on his cheeks, and his eyes were too glassy for Skinner's liking. Shit. He sat up and took Mulder's clammy hands in his.

"I'm sorry, Fox." He felt queasy. "You deserve a better explanation than that."

Mulder's expression indicated complete agreement.

"It's just that I--I'm so afraid of upsetting you." He cleared his throat nervously. "Look, you know how much our sex life means to me. What I think of your body. But that's not all that turns me on. I really get off on the sounds you make when we're in bed. The way you order me around, tell me what to do. The way you holler when you come. I really miss all that. I miss the sound of your voice so goddamned much."

Mulder's chin sank to his chest.

"Stop it, Fox! It's not your fault that you can't talk or make all those sounds anymore. I know that. But you *do* make some noise when you're asleep, and you made a little today when you were lost in the sex, so I got my hopes up. But I shouldn't have, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for both of us."

A tear splashed onto Skinner's fist.

"Oh, babe." He extracted a hand from Mulder's grip and tilted the sorrowful face upward. "This is what I was afraid of. I don't want to make you cry all the time. Especially not today, when we have so much to be happy about. I just--" His voice wavered. "It's just that I'd give anything to hear you say you love me again, or shout out my name when you come. Jesus Christ! What did those godless pricks do to you so you can't even say my fucking name?"

Eyes bulging, nostrils flaring, Mulder clamped his left hand over the side of his neck, behind his left ear.

"Fox? What is it?" With mounting fear, Skinner reached back and yanked open the nightstand drawer, groping blindly for a pen and a piece of paper. What the hell had he done?

But Mulder shook his head, squeezed his eyes closed, and twisted his face into a grimace. To Skinner's amazement, Mulder's mouth began to work. He pursed his lips as though attempting to whistle, but nothing came out. The fingers wrapped around his neck squeezed harder, as did the ones holding Skinner's hand, and he squinted at the terrified man before him.

"Waaah." His voice was almost unrecognizable, reminiscent of an iron gate being forced open after decades of neglect. 

"Oh, my God." Skinner's heart was pounding too hard and too fast to be considered anywhere close to normal.

Now Mulder's tongue curled toward the roof of his mouth. "Waaal." Sweat was streaming down his face and neck. "Waaalt. Waaalt."

Skinner bit the inside of his cheek to prevent himself from shouting encouragement. "Fox," he pleaded. "It's okay, baby. It's okay. Don't strain yourself. Please. You're scaring me."

But Mulder pressed on. "Waaalter." His face was scarlet now. "Wal-ter! WALTER! Oh, God! I re--remember!"

He screamed rustily and pitched forward into Skinner's arms.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

There was no pain.

None at all.

His head was buzzing a bit, his throat a little scratchy. But he was warm and dry and lying on a soft, comfortable surface. A bed?

When he cracked his eyes open and couldn't see a damned thing, there was a moment of panic until he realized that there was something--it felt like wet fabric--covering the top part of his face. He reached up to investigate, but the moment his hand moved, the cloth was raised to reveal a harried man hovering over him.

"Walter," he croaked. Oh, thank God. Thank God.

The worry lines disappeared from Skinner's forehead. "That's me," he said, finger-combing Mulder's hair out of the way. "You okay?"

"Mmmm." He slid his hands up Skinner's bare arms. "How long was I out?"

"About 10 minutes. Felt like 10 hours. Scared the shit out of me."

 "Sorry."

"Wasn't your fault. I--I shouldn't have badgered you like that."

"You weren't badgering. Just asking a simple quest--" The end of the sentence caught in his throat and he coughed.

"Here." Skinner slipped an arm behind Mulder and raised him to a semi-seated position, then grabbed a glass off the night table. "Drink."

Mulder's fingers closed over Skinner's as the water was brought to his lips.

"Better?" Skinner asked after Mulder'd had his fill.

"Mmmm. Thanks." He licked his lips. "You cold?"

"No." Skinner was still naked.

"Would you get under the covers with me anyway?"

"Sure," he smiled, slipping into bed. They lay facing each other, Skinner with one hand on Mulder's hip, Mulder with Skinner's other hand in both of his and curled under his chin.

"I--I need to tell you things, Walter."

He gave Mulder's hip a gentle squeeze. "Okay."

"Okay." He entwined his feet with Skinner's. "Might as well just take it from the top. When they--when they grabbed me, I found myself in this circle of light, and all the other abductees were there. The Hoeses, the Mills, that Corey kid... All of them. And I thought it was, well, pretty cool, you know? Because there I was, Spooky Mulder, the wingnut who'd been obsessed with extraterrestrials for most of his wretched life, about to meet some face-to-face. To be taken aboard one of their ships, for God's sake. And the other people looked so peaceful and happy, and I felt good, too. Excited. And then someone else entered the circle. The alien bounty hunter. He walked up to me and I knew I was fucked. I tried to run, to move, but it was like my boots were nailed to the ground. And then I heard you calling my name. I could see you. And I called back, even though I knew you couldn't hear me. Couldn't help me."

"Jesus." Skinner moved closer and slid his arm around Mulder's back.

"Yeah. Then everything went dark and I couldn't see or hear you anymore. Or the others. Or the woods. Someone--some *thing*--grabbed me and ripped off my coat and I felt pressure on my upper arm. When I woke up, I was strapped down, and my clothes were gone, and I was hooked up to some kind of machine I couldn't see very well. There were tubes coming in and going out of me everywhere. And it was fucking cold in there, and dead quiet except for this constant humming I managed to tune out fairly quickly. And, of course, brilliant me, I started yelling for them to let me go. Take me home. They left me like that for I don't know how long. When they finally showed up, I was actually happy to see them because the loneliness was driving me insane. I never had any contact with the other abductees, so I passed the time by having conversations with myself. But that got old awfully fast, so I pretended you were there to talk to."

He cleared his throat, but Skinner didn't take advantage of the pause to disturb the flow of Mulder's narrative. He sure as hell wanted to, though.

"Anyway, they didn't turn out to be very friendly hosts. They, uh, *did* things to me. Painful things."

Skinner cringed, but remained mum.

"At first I tried to be the tough guy, you know? I complained--loudly--but I wouldn't scream. Wouldn't cry. But then it started getting really bad, and I couldn't help it. I guess I felt sorry for myself. I was cold and hungry and scared, and sick of being a lab rat. And I missed you, Walter. Missed you so much. I began to think they'd never take me home, and I'd never see you again. I stopped talking to you and started calling for you. Calling your name. Over and over again, like if I said it enough you'd somehow materialize before me. Crazy, huh?"

Skinner shook his head sadly.

"While they were hurting me, I closed my eyes and pictured your face and cried out for you. It took a while, but I eventually figured out that the more I did it, the worse the pain got. So I started saying your name in my head instead of out loud, but that didn't work either. They must've been able to read my mind." He mouth quirked slightly. "Now I know why you got so pissed off when I did it to you."

Mulder's attempt at humour produced a ghost of a smile. 

"I couldn't even *think* your name, but they didn't seem to care if I just thought about you. Which I did all the time. But they sure didn't like it whenever I moaned or cried or screamed, so I had to learn how to take whatever they dished out without making a sound. And I got pretty good at it, too, until--until the fuckers--" Swallowing, he tightened his grip on Skinner's white-knuckled hand. "They were always pumping me full of shit. But not, of course, when they decided to cut into my skull. I screamed my head off before I blacked out."

"Oh, Fox," Skinner whispered brokenly.

"After the operation, the experiments got more intense. God, there were times when it was so bad that I just wanted them to kill me and get it over with."

Skinner bit his lower lip as scalding tears streamed down his face, and Mulder cupped a wet cheek.

"But then I'd think about you. Picture your face in my mind and remember how good it was to be with you. And just knowing there was a possibility that we'd be together again, some day, made me want to stay alive. Not to let them break me. And I didn't. And they *did* take me home, and you were there when I woke up in the hospital, and I was never so happy in my life." He thumbed away a tear. "I love you, Walter."

That did it. Skinner pressed his face into Mulder's neck and let the sobs wrack his body.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"This isn't right."

"Relax. Don't worry about it."

"No, really." Lying with his head in Mulder's lap, Skinner peeked out from under the washcloth and eyed his partner seriously. "This is all backward."

Mulder shrugged. "I said, don't worry about it. I just unloaded some pretty heavy shit on you. Besides, you've been comforting me from the moment you got me back."

"Have I?"

That earned him a gentle swat to the side of the head. "I thought *I* was the smart-ass in this family."

Family. Skinner absently twisted his commitment ring. "Nah. You're the good-looking one."

Mulder snorted. "I don't know about that."

"Well, I do." He sat up and ran his fingers through Mulder's hair, losing them there. "God, you're amazing."

"Yeah. Amazingly scrawny." He was still loath to take a compliment.

"Uhn-uhn. More like lanky. You've put at least--what?--10 pounds back on? But I wasn't talking about just how you look, even though I think you're beautiful." His hands slid down to cup Mulder's face. "You're a survivor. You just don't give up. I've never known anyone as tough as you."

"Not even Scully?"

"No. Not even Scully."

Mulder turned his head slightly to rub his cheek against Skinner's palm. "I'm--I'm still scared, Walter."

Skinner sighed. "I know. Me too."

"They tagged me, didn't they?"

He nodded solemnly, then slid his hand back and brushed his index finger over the skin behind Mulder's left ear.

"If they--If they take me again, I don't think you should wait for me."

He gently rapped his knuckles against the top of Mulder's head. "You don't, huh? And I suppose you wouldn't wait for me if I ever got taken. For God's sake, Fox! I'd wait out my lifetime if I had to."

"So would I."

Skinner gathered Mulder into his arms. "I know. But let's hope it never comes to that."

Mulder shivered. "I admire your optimism, Walter. But look how many times Billy Miles has been abducted. Fuck. Realistically, what are the chances of it happening to me just the once?" He increased his hold on Skinner. "I'm so afraid of being taken from you again. I guess that's why I have this irrational need to touch you all the time. It's like--like I'll be safe as long as we're physically connected. Which is ridiculous. And not fair to you."

"Forget about what's fair to me," Skinner said, his lips pressed into a tight, flat line. "I don't know how, but I'll find a way to keep them away from you."

Mulder drew back and drank in Skinner's sad, serious face. "I love you, Walter Skinner. Really love you."

"Right back atcha, Fox Mulder." And he closed his eyes as Mulder leaned into him, accepting the offer of his lips gratefully.

The kisses were gentle, unhurried. And they remained that way, but grew deeper. Skinner's head was soon swimming over the way Mulder's burgeoning erection was sparring with his, poking him in the belly, leaving a lovely wet trail.

Mulder broke the kiss and licked his way to Skinner's ear. "Fuck me, Walter." Before Skinner had a chance to respond, Mulder slid off his lap, lay down, spread his legs, and hiked his knees up. "Make me ready for you."

Without a second thought, Skinner buried his face between Mulder's thighs and, using his hands to separate the spare butt cheeks ever further, loosened Mulder up with his tongue again. And, this time, there was no doubt how Mulder felt about it.

"Jesus, Walter!" he moaned lustily. "That's so good. So fucking good. I love it when you eat me. Oh, God. Won't need your fingers. Just your cock. Now. Now, Walter. Before I come. Please. Now."

"Now" sounded good to Skinner, because the noises Mulder was making, the words he was using, were sending all the blood in his brain to his dick. But as he fished the tube of K-Y out of the nightstand drawer, he had enough sense to realize how long it had been since they'd last done this. He dragged Mulder forward, placed the long, lean legs onto his shoulders.

"I want this just as much as you do," he pronounced, "but we've waited this long, so we can wait until you're totally ready. I'm not going to hurt you, Fox. You've been hurt enough."

Mulder's face fell. "But--but it's a good kind of hurt."

"There's no such thing." He slipped a slick finger into Mulder's body. "Not where you're concerned."

Mulder's protests were cut off by an insistent, lingering kiss, and he moaned into Skinner's mouth when a second finger invaded him.

Only when Skinner was satisfied that Mulder was stretched properly did he coat himself with lube. "Okay, babe. On your side."

"No." Defiance danced in those hypnotic hazel eyes. "Like this." Then the set of his mouth relaxed. "Please, Walter."

"If I hurt you--"

"--I'll let you know. Believe me."

Still skeptical, but extraordinarily aroused, Skinner pushed at the dilated opening. To his great relief--and pleasure--the head of his cock was swallowed up almost instantly. He wanted more, and he wanted it yesterday, but he held back, always aware of how much Mulder had suffered. Skinner cooed words of love, words of encouragement--so different from the previous lovemaking session. He proceeded slowly. Carefully. By the time he'd achieved full penetration, he was glistening with sweat.

"Dear God," he panted, looking down at Mulder's serene face. "Even better than I remembered. Feels like--Jesus, feels like the first time." 

"Tell me about it," Mulder chuckled wryly.

"Damnit! I *am* hurting you."

"No. No. Just--just give me a minute. To get used to it. The fullness, you know?"

"Yeah. Of course. Anything." He brought one of Mulder's clenched fists to his lips and kissed the knuckles. "Anything you want. Would it--would it be okay if I touch you?"

"Stupid question, Skinner."

He eagerly tended to Mulder's semi-stiff cock, stroking and squeezing and manipulating it, rapidly renewing its interest.

"Start moving now," Mulder commanded.

"You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. Because if you lose your woody again, I'm gonna have major self-esteem problems."

He snorted. "No chance of that happening this time. Not if you keep ordering me around."

"Then fuck me, Walter. Move that sweet ass of yours and fuck me."

Between Mulder's thrashing and bucking and erotic vocalizations, Skinner came faster than he would have liked. But Mulder was right there with him, shouting his lover's name over and over in the sweetest song that Skinner had ever heard.

Considering it was the third orgasm he'd coaxed from the younger man in less than half a day, Skinner felt pretty good about his performance.

He felt even better that Mulder hadn't been torn or injured in any way. He wasn't a virgin, God knew, but still...

They held each other for a while, talking quietly about nothing and everything. Skinner was simply entranced by the sound of Mulder's voice, a little raspy again after all that sexual yodelling. "It's wonderful to have you back," he told him.

Mulder's forehead crinkled. "Huh? What are you talking about ? I've been back for-- Oh. Right. Gotcha." He rolled his eyes at himself. "Know what I wanna do now?"

"What?"

"Have dinner. I'm starving."

Skinner glanced at the clock radio. "Good plan. We should get up before we sleep through until morning. But I *have* to have a shower first." Indeed, his torso and lower right arms were splattered with dried semen. "I'll take a quick one, then you soak in the tub while I make us something to eat."

"I'd really like that." Mulder looked at him shyly. "Would you--could I shower with you *before* my bath?"

"Of course, Fox. I'd like that, too. Any special requests for dinner?"

Mulder accompanied his lover into the bathroom. "Uhn-uhn. Surprise me. I trust you. But *after* dinner..."

There was a roguish gleam in Mulder's eye that made Skinner feel at least 10 years younger. "Yes?"

"I want to do everything you just did to me. If I can stay awake long enough. No offence intended."

"None taken."

"And I want to spend the whole day in bed with you tomorrow."

"What about our workouts?" Skinner teased.

"Oh, we'll get them, all right. Don't you worry."

Skinner kissed him, then turned on the shower and ushered Mulder in ahead of him.

"Walter?"

"Hmmm?" He was busy soaping up a washcloth.

Mulder grabbed his wrist. "I--I want to be with you forever, okay?"

"I want that too, Fox. Nothing or nobody's gonna take you away from me again. Never. You got that?"

Nodding, Mulder smiled bravely and stepped into the circle of Skinner's arms.

As he hugged Mulder tightly, Skinner vowed he'd find a way to prevent him from becoming a victim of multiple abductions.

Because another one would kill them both.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

September 11, 2000  
5:22 p.m.

"Hi. C'mon in."

"Hi, Walter." Scully slipped off her raincoat and handed it to him. "Something sure smells good. Where's Mulder?"

Skinner stepped aside as the man in question emerged from the kitchen and walked up to his partner.

"Hi, Scully."

Her eyes widened almost comically, and she shook her head as though she couldn't believe what she'd just heard. "M-Mulder?"

"No, Elian Gonzalez," he deadpanned. "You gonna stare at me all night or what?"

"Oh, my God!" She launched herself at him, pressing her face against his chest to smother the foreign half sob, half laugh. Her eyes were sparkling when she more or less released him, blushing prettily under Skinner's amused gaze. "This is wonderful! When? When did this happen?"

"Yesterday."

"What?!?" She whacked his arm playfully. "Why'd you wait so long to tell me?"

Mulder reached for Skinner's hand and drew him close. "There were some things I had to, uh, tell Walter first."

The colour in her face deepened. "Oh. Of course. I'm sorry. I--"

"Would you like a glass of wine?" Skinner interjected.

She sighed. "Yes. Please."

"You two go sit down in the living room. I'll be right back," he said, mostly to Mulder.

She accompanied Mulder to the couch and sat down beside him, with the most wondrous expression on her face. "How'd it happen? Was it just out of the blue, like the way you could read again?"

He ran a hand through his hair. "Not quite. Actually, it took a fair bit of work. We were reading the paper yesterday, and--"

Then Skinner came into the room, carrying a white wine glass and a large tumbler, which he placed on the coffee table before heading back the way he came.

"What are you drinking, Mulder?" Scully asked, curious.

"Iced tea."

She harrumphed. "That's hardly appropriate for making a toast. We should be drinking champagne to celebrate you getting the power of speech back."

He shrugged. "Had a beer--a light one, at that--with lunch today, and slept for most of the afternoon. Think I'll stick to the soft stuff for a little while longer."

"That makes sense," she said sheepishly. "When did you become so damned sensible?"

"Hasn't he *always* been sensible?" Skinner teased as he returned with a tray loaded with cheese and crackers, a shrimp ring, and raw veggies and dip.

"Wow," Scully said, too distracted by the pile of food to continue poking fun at her partner. She hadn't had anything but coffee all day. "Just look at all of this. We're going to spoil our appetites."

Skinner checked his watch. "Dinner'll be ready in about 90 minutes, so you should be okay."

Both Mulder and Scully picked up on the fact that he'd said "you" instead of "we," but Mulder was the one who got to his feet.

"Walter," he said anxiously, clutching Skinner's arm, "aren't you having any?"

Skinner slipped his arms around Mulder's waist. "No, babe. You and Dana--you both have a lot to talk about, so I'm going to give you some privacy."

"But where are you going?"

Skinner looked over his shoulder and tilted his head toward the sports bag sitting unobtrusively in the front foyer. "Just downstairs, to work out."

Mulder grinned impishly despite his obvious fears. "Wouldn't think you had any energy left."

"Not much," Skinner agreed happily. "I'll think I'll skip the stationary bike today. Walk me to the door?"

Mulder obliged, and was rewarded with the kind of kiss usually reserved for couples who hadn't seen each other in weeks. Or months.

"I won't be long," Skinner promised. "And Dana's armed, so you know you're in good hands."

"I know I am." But the way his eyes twinkled indicated he meant another pair of good hands entirely.

"Look after him for me, Dana," Skinner instructed, absently patting Mulder's ass.

She answered by raising her eyebrows, then her wineglass.

Skinner talked Mulder out of escorting him to the elevator, but Mulder didn't close the door and return to Scully until he'd watched his man step into the car.

"Well, well, well." She gave him a heart-warming smile. "I see that *other* things are back to normal, too. No wonder you didn't want me coming over yesterday."

"It *would* have been kind of awkward," he chuckled, starting to relax.

"I'm really happy for you, Mulder." She squeezed his knee. "For both of you."

"Thanks." He took a sip of his iced tea. "You know, he didn't leave just to 'give us privacy.' I think there are some things that are just too disturbing for a person to hear two days in a row."

"Or *say*. You've obviously remembered what happened to you when--during your abduction."

He nodded. "Most of it. But it was easier for me to talk about it than for Walter to listen to it. Which did and didn't surprise me."

She gazed into the depths of her glass, and when the silence began to stretch between them, he rubbed her arm clumsily.

"Scully, if you'd rather I didn't tell you--"

"No, no, Mulder. I want you to. That's not it. It's just that--I have something to tell you, too. Something I've already told Walter. When I came out to Oregon to see you in the hospital."

Mulder's thin face blanched, and he took her hand. "You're not--it hasn't--"

"It's *not* the cancer," she said firmly. "It's still in remission."

He fell back against the couch. "Thank God."

But when she told him about her ill-fated pregnancy, he broke down and cried on her shoulder.

And she remained calm and dry-eyed until he repeated the same story he'd told Skinner the day before.

When Skinner came back up from the fitness centre, he found them talking quite animatedly. Chuckling, even. But evidence of the tears they'd shed was visible all over their faces.

The door closed, and Mulder looked back and forth from his work partner to his domestic one, a study in divided loyalties.

"I'm fine, Mulder. Go to him."

He certainly didn't need much more encouragement than that, and ran into Skinner's waiting arms, a profusion of conflicting emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

FBI Headquarters  
Washington, DC  
September 27, 2000  
3:21 p.m.

"What the hell's taking so long?"

Scully, resplendent in a dark wool fitted jacket and matching pencil skirt, tapped a perfectly polished peach fingernail against the unforgiving surface of the wooden bench she and Mulder had been occupying for nearly two hours now.

But all she got was a shrug.

"You're taking this awfully well, Mulder."

He considered her statement for a few moments before answering. "I have no reason to worry. Walter's got them by the balls, and they know it. He's going to get exactly what he wants. They're probably just stalling for time. That's all they've got now."

Scully was dying to ask her partner what Skinner had over the Bureau, but wondered if Mulder even knew the exact nature of that ammunition. From a couple of cryptic conversations she'd overheard between Skinner and his lawyer, she'd gathered that, during his tenure as Assistant Director, he'd spirited away the minimum amount of information needed to ensure he wouldn't leave the FBI empty handed or in disgrace. And Scully suspected that Skinner had not made Mulder privy to that information in order to protect him. God, she'd give almost anything to get a look at the contents of Michael Gerstein's briefcase.

"What is it, Scully?"

"Oh," she said, a bit flustered at being caught daydreaming right in Mulder's face, "I was just thinking that I never would've figured Walter as a blackmailer."

"Bargainer," Mulder reprimanded none too seriously. "Bargainer. There's a subtle distinction between the two."

"Uh-huh. Definitely."

He smiled at her--just a slight curve of the lips--and leaned back in his seat to resume his contemplation of the far wall.

Mulder certainly was different since he'd found his voice again. Much calmer, for one thing. Less fidgety. And--for him--freakishly quiet. Oh, he still had that wonderful, dry sense of humour. But he wasn't employing it as much as he used to. And that delightful, endless stream of chatter had all but dried up. Give him time, Scully told herself. When she thought about how terrified he'd been when they found him, it was a wonder he could speak at all.

If anything good had come of all this, it was the deepening of the relationship between her two favourite men. While Mulder no longer felt the urgent need to stick to Skinner like a strip of velcro, he could usually be found within his lover's reach. And Skinner was more than happy about it. In fact, they both revelled in their new closeness.

Furthermore, the two had developed what Scully could only describe as a telepathic bond. Where they once used to finish each other's sentences, they now finished each other's thoughts. Or so it seemed by their deeds and the reactions to them.

Scully started and stood up with Mulder as the double doors to the conference room burst open. First to be spewed out was the Director, pasty-faced and grim and carrying a manila folder. He was followed closely by the Bureau's chief counsel and another man who looked equally defeated. They strode purposefully to the bank of elevators without so much as a sideways glance at the two agents.

Kersh, however, glared at them before turning on his heel and storming off down the hall, pulling his cell phone from his jacket pocket and barking something into it.

But neither Scully nor Mulder cared, because Skinner and Gerstein were now coming toward them. Their neutral, almost stern, expressions confused Scully until, a heartbeat later, she realized they weren't the kind of men to gloat publicly.

"So?" she asked, too impatient to do the polite thing and wait for Mulder. He was preoccupied with ogling Skinner, who was dressed in a superbly tailored charcoal suit, periwinkle blue shirt, and perfectly co-ordinated tie. "What happened?"

"It's over," Skinner said quietly. "Early retirement with a full pension. Effective immediately."

Over a chorus of "congratulations" and "thank yous," the four shook hands and huddled a little closer together.

But something wasn't right. Something besides the fact that the corridors in this section of the Hoover were suddenly busier than normal.

"What's the matter, Dana?" Skinner handed her a crisp white handkerchief. "We won." 

Scully dabbed at her eyes, trying not to smear her mascara. "I know, Walter. And I'm happy for you. Really. But--" She stifled a tiny sob. "I just think it's so sad that--that your career had to end like this. You're the best Assistant Director this place ever had, and I'm sorry to see you go. I'll--I'll miss working for you."

Smiling gently, Skinner pulled Scully into a hug, which she accepted without hesitation. "Thank you," he whispered. "I'll miss working with you, too. But this is what I wanted, Dana. It's the best thing for me. And for Fox."

"Uh, Mr. Skinner?"

He released her and turned to face a towering security guard.

"Yes?" Polite, but not subordinate.

Without looking, the guard inclined his head toward Kersh, who was stewing across the hall with ADs Stephens and Costello. Special Agent John Doggett had joined them. "The Deputy Director says you're to come with me to clean out your office. Then I'll take you to your car."

"I'll come with you," Mulder told Skinner.

The giant shook his head. "I'm sorry, sir, but my orders are to escort Mr. Skinner, and Mr. Skinner alone."

Scully noticed the look that passed between Skinner and Mulder, and grinned when Mulder backed off without a word.

"Uh, look--" Skinner glanced at the guard's name tag. "--Collins. I'll be right with you. I just want to say good-bye to my friends."

Collins gave it some thought, nodded, and walked away, out of earshot.

The first person Skinner addressed was Gerstein. "Thanks, Mike. You were incredible in there."

The lawyer shrugged. "My pleasure. You were pretty impressive yourself. I'll call you in a couple of days. And don't forget what we talked about."

"I won't."

They shook hands again, and Gerstein went on his way.

Now Skinner turned to Scully. "Dana, would you please take Fox home? And stay with him 'til I get there? I don't know how long this'll take, and I don't want him waiting around here for me."

"Of course." This time it was she who initiated the hug.

"You okay with that?" he finally asked Mulder.

"I'm fine. But do you see how everybody's looking at you? And Scully? If they didn't think you were an item before, they sure do now."

The drone of human voices had been picking up steadily.

"If they only knew," Skinner smirked.

"So show them."

Skinner's eyebrows shot to the top of his head. "Excuse me?"

"Let them know. About us. It's not our fault that they're too stupid to notice we're wearing wedding bands." Mulder's eyes were positively dancing. "This is the perfect chance to set them straight, as it were."

"But what about you? You still work here."

"Yeah, but not for much longer. I'm sure they can't wait to fire my ass." He took a step forward. "C'mon, Walter. They want a show? Let's give them one."

Skinner stared into those wicked hazel eyes for a few seconds, then removed his glasses. "Here, Dana. Hold these."

Oh, boy. Surely to God he wasn't--they weren't going to--

Skinner took Mulder's head between his hands, Mulder wrapped his fingers around Skinner's wrists, and they drew one another closer, bringing their lips together. Skinner ruffled Mulder's hair and Mulder caressed Skinner's face before they gave in and engaged in a full-body hug that made the whole display that much more--effective.

The entire floor had fallen silent--so silent that Scully was sure everyone could hear the happy little whimpers Mulder was making in the back of his throat. The looks on the faces of her colleagues told her as much.

When the kiss had finally run its course, Skinner brushed his thumb over Mulder's moist bottom lip. "Go with Dana," he instructed gently. "I'll see you at home."

"Hurry, though. Okay?"

"Okay. I promise. Dana?" His eyes still locked with Mulder's, he held out his hand, and Scully pressed the wirerims into them like a scrub nurse assisting a surgeon. "Thanks."

"Anytime."

Then she and Mulder stood and watched while Skinner walked proudly over to the stunned security guard.

"Well?" they heard the former AD say, his voice strong and sure. "I'm ready now."

They continued to watch as Skinner and Collins headed over to the elevator, where they were joined by AD Cassidy, and didn't budge until the car whisked its passengers away.

"Elvis has left the building," Mulder muttered.

"And so should we." Scully was uncomfortably aware of the lingering scrutiny of her fellow employees.

"Let's go, then," said Mulder, taking her hand.

She sighed. While sweet, she realized that Mulder's gesture would probably make the tongues wag even harder.

Oh, fuck it.

Thanks to her gravity-defying heels, Scully only had to crane her neck to plant a kiss on Mulder's cheek.

"What was that for?" he asked with a chuckle.

"Congratulations, partner."

She smiled all the way to the parking garage.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The guard, Collins, was doing his best to mind his own business. But Skinner's sixth sense told him that Cassidy was being a little less discreet. Regardless, he didn't take his eyes off Mulder until the elevator doors closed, and couldn't have wiped the grin off his face if he tried. Which he didn't.

"Walter Skinner!" But that was admiration in Cassidy's voice--not derision. He was certain of it.

"Always wanted to do that." He was trying not to bounce.

"I take it this isn't something, uh, new between the two of you."

"No, ma'am. We're coming up on two years."

"And I suppose you're living together."

"Twenty-two months now."

"Walter Skinner," the cool blonde declared. "You dog, you!"

"Yes, ma'am."

She laughed as she followed the two men off the elevator. "How 'bout I help you clear out your office so you can get home to him faster?"

Skinner slowed down so she could catch up with him. "Can't wait to see the last of me, Jana?"

"On the contrary. I'm going to miss you. Between you and me, you're one of the few people I actually respect around here."

"I thought you liked Stephens."

"Are you kidding? He's so far up Kersh's ass he can see the soles of Costello's shoes."

"Jana Cassidy!"

"Ooops," she stage-whispered, glancing at the stone-faced guard. "You won't tell anyone, will you?"

"No, ma'am," said Collins, eyes forward.

"And you won't mind if I accompany AD--I mean, *Mr.* Skinner this afternoon." 

Of course he wouldn't. After all, Cassidy was still an Assistant Director.

But Skinner didn't give a good goddamn that *he* wasn't.

Because *he* was the one who was going home to Fox Mulder.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

October 5, 2000  
Danny's Barbershop  
Bellefleur, Oregon

"Ben! Answer that, will you?"

Danny Hargrove was in the middle of giving a haircut. His uncle, on the other hand, was lounging in his chair, reading the paper and ignoring the phone, which had already rung four times.

"Ben!"

The older man put down the paper with an angry snap. "All right. All right. Hold your damned horses."

As Danny muttered something about "lazy old bastards" under his breath, Ben shuffled over to the phone.

"'Morning. Danny's Barbershop. This is Ben. What can I do for you? Hmmm? Oh, hi. Uh-huh. Yeah. Sure. Just a sec." He placed his hand over the receiver. "Danny. It's for you."

His nephew paused in mid-snip. "Ben! In case you haven't noticed, I'm kind of busy right now. Take a message."

"Fine." He spoke into the phone again. "Sorry, Walt. He's--"

"Wait! Wait! Don't hung up!" Danny patted his customer on the back and dashed over to his uncle, grabbing the phone out of his hand. "Walt? Walt Skinner? Is that you?"

"Hi, Danny. Yeah. It's me."

"I hope you're calling with good news."

"The best. Here. There's someone who wants to say 'hello.'"

The barber waited a couple of seconds before a new voice came on the line.

"Uh, Danny?

"Yes?"

"This is Fox Mulder."

"Oh, my God. Hi. Hi, Fox."

"Yeah. Hi. I just wanted to thank you for everything you did for Walter and me. We're going away in a couple of days, and I need another haircut. Too bad you don't make house calls to Virginia." 

Danny chuckled, even as his eyes filled to brimming. He knew Ben would tease him about it 'til the end of his days. "Sorry, man," he answered as steadily as he could. "I don't even make house calls *here*. But be sure to stop by if you're out this way again."

"Same goes for you," Mulder told him. "If you ever come to DC, that is. Well, I should let Walter have a turn now. It was nice talking to you, Danny."

"You too, Fox. You too." He cleared his throat while the phone was passed back to Skinner, then chatted with his friend long enough that Ben begrudgingly went to finish the haircut Danny had started.

But Danny Hargrove wasn't about to apologize to anyone. Right now, he had more important things than work to tend to.

Everything else would just have to wait.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The End  
April 8, 2001

  
Archived: April 09, 2001 


End file.
